* 


JBoiiel 


BY 


WILLIAM  FARQUHAR  PAYSON 

AUTHOR    OF    "JOHN    VYTAL " 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HARPKK  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  rtseri-ed. 

Published  April,  1903. 


A  good  man    in  the  direful  grasp  of  ill, 
His  consciousness  of  right  retaineth  still. 
— GOETHE'S  Faust. 


2137675 


Contents 


BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  TIME'S  FORELOCK • 3 

II.  THE  FELINE  PRINCIPLE 12 

III.  THE  MAN  WHO  TURNED  AWAY 23 


BOOK  II 

I.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  "JAMBOREE" 39 

II.  FIGURES  ON  THE  SHORE 42 

III.  THE  ALIGHTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 50 

IV.  THE  TOAST  THAT  FAILED 54 

V.  THE  BOAT  OF  DREAMS 69 

VI.  THE  FOOTPRINT  OF  REALITY 78 

VII.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MOTES 85 

VIII.  THE  MASK  OF  BLOSSOMS 92 

IX.  THE  GENTLE  PHILOSOPHER 101 

X.  TAKING  THE  BULL  BY  THE  HORNS 109 

XI.  BY-WAYS  OF  CONVERSATION .117 

XII.  A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  MOON  RAMPANT 125 

XIII.  A  SOCKDOLAGER 140 

XIV.  THE  TEMPLE  OF  SLEEP 150 

XV.  A  DECLARATION  OF  DEPENDENCE 159 

XVI.  THE  LETTERS  THAT  CROSSED 169 

v 


Contents 

BOOK  III 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  TOP  FLOOR  FRONT 175 

II.  THE  CUSTODIAN  OF  NIGHT 195 

III.  THE  PATRON  OF  THE  POPULAR 210 

IV.  THE  SPIRIT  OF  VAUDEVILLE    .....          .  222 

V.  THE  QUEEN  OF  BOHEMIA 230 

VI.  AFTERTHOUGHTS 253 

VII.  THE  HOUR  OF  STEPHEN  LEE 262 

VIII.  THE  SUPREME  COURT 272 

IX.  THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  GODS  .     ....          ...  289 

X.  THE  COURSE  OF  THE  INCUBUS 297 

XI.  THE  WITCH'S  CALDRON 314 

XII.  HECATE'S  BREW 331 

BOOK  IV 

I.  Two  MASTERS 349 

II.  THE  HEART  OF  MARION 366 

III.  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE        390 

IV.  TOASTING  THE  BRIDE 400 

V.  LIFE  IN  EPITOME 413 


Book    I 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE 


i 

Time's   Forelock 

HPHE  face  of  the  clock  was  difficult  to  read.  Thanks 
1  to  its  intricate  decoration,  the  ormolu  timepiece, 
even  by  day  propounding  a  riddle,  was  at  present  yet 
more  mysterious  in  the  shadows  of  a  room  very  faintly 
illuminated. 

Celeste  admired  this  delicate  conceit  from  her  birth- 
place, and  approved  its  considerate  evasion.  Her  own 
little  face  was  scarcely  less  non-committal.  Who  but  she 
and  the  clock-makers  of  Paris  could  have  trifled  so  airily 
with  Time? 

She  strained  her  eyes,  but  could  distinguish  only  the 
ornamentation. 

To  the  right,  on  top  of  the  disk,  a  two-inch  Love, 
backed  by  an  ormolu  flame,  sturdily  mimicked  a  black- 
smith. Under  the  wings  a  knot  of  gilt  ribbon,  ends 
a-fly,  fastened  his  only  garment,  the  farrier's  apron. 
With  one  diminutive  hand  he  forever  extended  his  tongs 
to  the  anvil  and  held  thereon  a  tiny  heart ;  with  the  other 
he  poised  his  hammer.  To  the  left  stood  a  taller  figure, 
the  shape  of  Time  himself,  resting  with  arms  akimbo  on 
his  upturned  scythe,  and  brows  drawn  down  as  if  to  in- 
spect the  absurdly  inadequate  Vulcan. 

3 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

What  did  it  mean?  She  forgot  the  commonplace 
enigma  beneath,  in  studying  its  more  poetic  interpreta- 
tion. To  look  at  the  hands  of  the  clock  was  boldly  to 
confront  the  lapses.  On  the  contrary,  to  peep  at  the 
Smithy  of  Life  was  to  tickle  her  fancy  with  countless 
little  " Whats  "  and  "  Whens  "  and  "Wherefores."  The 
future  ran  riot  with  a  medley  of  alternatives :  Now  or 
later  ? — This  or  that  ? — So-and-so  or  some  one  else  ?  Well , 
well;  everything  depends  on  the  heat  of  the  ormolu 
flame  and  the  leniency  of  the  taller  figure. 

At  all  events,  the  group  conveyed  one  satisfactory 
meaning.  It  assured  her  that,  in  spite  of  her  birth  and 
childhood,  she  had  acquired  a  pretty  taste,  a  taste,  in 
fact,  so  rare  as  to  be  capable  of  restricting  its  whims  by 
discrimination,  and  modifying  its  recherche*  tendency  by 
close  attention  to  that  subtle  prerequisite  —  the  Touch 
Refined.  Five  years  in  an  American  convent  had  not 
been  spent  in  vain.  She  had  gained  a  remarkable 
knowledge  of  the  English  language.  A  born  linguist, 
she  was  perfectly  at  home  in  it  and  spoke  with  an  idio- 
matic fluency  all  but  native  in  accent.  She  had  ac- 
quired, moreover,  an  invaluable  smattering  of  litera- 
ture, history,  and  the  arts,  and  at  least  the  shell  of  the 
nuns'  religion.  So  long  as  the  dainty  superstitions  had 
stuck  to  her  she  was  glad  to  dispense  with  the  heart 
of  it  and  the  truth.  The  symbols  alone  had  impressed 
her;  their  meaning  had  utterly  failed.  Not  so  the  mean- 
ing of  the  next  five  years  —  the  five  of  a  checkered 
career  in  the  world. 

Well,  some  day  these  and  the  others  and  the  brilliant 
polish  she  had  acquired  therefrom  would  probably  tell 
to  advantage.  Not  a  trick  should  be  left  unlearned 
in  the  process  of  self  -  advancement.  Time,  dawdle! 
Ormolu  flame,  leap  high!  Smith,  to  your  work;  forge 
the  thing,  finish  it;  finish  a  thing  with  horse-shoe  luck 
and  a  heart's  blindness!  Thereupon  toss  it  still  hot, 

4 


Time's    Forelock 

if  you  please,  to  the  woman  below  before  the  old  Reaper 
spies  her. 

Poof!  Some  day  she  would  look  back  and  smile  and 
say  to  herself,  "Yes,  yes,  the  years  when  I  sat  by  the 
Forge  of  Life  and  blew  at  the  flame  and  cajoled  the 
watcher  and  hurried  the  smith  —  yes,  those  years  were 
dark;  but  so  is  night  before  the  morning."  Some  day, 
of  course,  she  would  laugh;  but  now,  equally  of  course, 
she  could  hardly  bear  it. 

Sinking  back  among  the  cushions  of  her  sofa,  she 
stifled  a  nervous  sob,  then  touched  her  lashes  with  a 
practised  finger  lest  tears  should  inflame  her  lids.  With 
closed  eyes  and  hands  lying  listless'  beside  her,  she  now 
made  as  though  to  resign  herself  to  the  monotony  of 
waiting.  But  suddenly,  under  her  palm  near  the  sofa's 
edge,  she  felt  a  touch,  the  disturbing  touch  of  something 
damp  and  frigid.  Recoiling  with  a  shiver,  she  peered  at 
the  floor,  then  frowned,  slipped  down  a  foot,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  remove  with  a  vicious  little  kick  the  cause 
of  this  unpleasant  contact. 

"Yap!"  rose  a  cry  of  offended  caninity. 

"  Only  BonhommeJ"  she  muttered  with  annoyance. 
"Little  fool!" 

Out  from  below  the  sofa  had  crawled  a  diminutive 
dog  of  the  dachshund  breed,  who,  having  heard  no 
doubt  the  sounds  of  distress  above  him,  had  sought  to 
give  solace  by  the  gentle  intrusion  of  his  nose.  Or- 
dinarily the  hand  above  —  the  little  svhite  hand  of  his 
destiny — was  beneficent  with  pats  or  titbits.  These 
lie  had  been  wont  to  obtain  by  dint  of  a  telling,  but 
unobtrusive,  mendicancy.  The  trick  was  this:  to  sniff 
the  air  with  an  eager  nose,  to  balance  erect  on  his  wabbly 
haunches,  to  burlesque  a  prayer  with  his  flapper-like 
paws  and  say  nothing.  In  return  for  the  charity  thus 
induced  what  had  he,  p'tit  Bonhomme.to  offer?  And  yet 
there  were  times  when  his  mistress,  too,  seemed  sorely 

5 


I 

The    Triumph    of    Life 

in  need  of  a  hand  above.  Had  he  not  seen  her  go  even 
so  far  as  to  imitate  his  own  little  plan  with  mimic  peti- 
tions to  the  ceiling?  On  such  an  occasion,  or,  again,  when 
she  uttered  the  human  equivalent  of  a  whine,  how  could 
any  save  an  ingrate  withhold  the  consolation  of  his  nose  ? 
But,  alack!  not  always  a  hand  descended;  his  destiny 
possessed  a  foot  no  less  impulsive,  also  a  voice  that  sent 
shivers  from  the  scruff  of  his  neck  to  the  tip  of  his  dis- 
tant tail.  "Little  fool,"  it  now  commanded;  "come 
here!"  Celeste  sprang  up  from  the  sofa.  Pulling  aside 
one  of  the  portieres  that  curtained  her  alcove  bedroom, 
"Hurry  up,"  she  stamped;  "go  in  and  stay  there!" 
For  a  moment  he  watched  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eyes  and  cringed  with  terror.  "Get  in!"  He  crawled 
thither  in  a  wide  de"tour,  then,  dashing  past  the  foot  of 
his  fate,  skulked  silently  into  the  darkness. 

Celeste  let  fall  the  portiere  and  flung  herself  again 
among  the  cushions.  Bad  luck  to  Bonhomme!  The 
touch  of  his  nose  had  set  her  on  edge,  and  she  wanted  to 
think  in  quiet.  A  plan  was  waiting  to  be  shaped,  a  plan 
both  methodic  and  capricious.  How  amusing  to  remain 
in  her  present  position;  simply  to  lie  out  motionless, 
hands  clasped,  eyes  closed,  and  let  her  expected  visitor 
suppose  her  asleep,  or  dead,  or  dying!  How  diverting 
and  yet  resultful !  The  effect  would  increase  her  power. 
It  would  pave  the  way  to  the  daring  demand  with  which 
she  intended  so  severely  to  test  the  strength  of  his  in- 
fatuation. It  would  serve  as  an  excellent  prologue  to 
the  play.  What  a  diverting  introduction  to  the  be- 
wildering little  farce  whose  authorship  and  leading  part 
could  be  claimed  by  one  and  the  same  inventive  woman! 

Scene:  New  York.  Period:  To-night.  Curtain  rises, 
disclosing  (she  sat  up  again  and  glanced  about  her)  a 
sitting-room,  or  boudoir,  dimly  lighted.  The  key-note 
is  taste  struggling  against  poverty,  a  taste  bizarre,  per- 
haps, and  erratic,  yet  none  the  less  apparent  in  deft 

6 


Time's    Forelock 

touches  that  seek  with  all  the  bravery  of  feminine  at- 
tempt to  oust  the  spirit  of  the  shoddy.  For  instance, 
two  little  sepia  photogravures  of  figures  by  Boucher 
and  Watteau  hang  immediately  under  a  brass  gas 
fixture  of  the  sort  that  is  deemed  beautiful  by  saloon- 
keepers' wives  of  the  lower  East  Side.  In  further 
contrast,  a  Whistler  etching,  well  selected,  simply  framed, 
hangs  against  a  wall-paper  decorated  with  gilt  scrolls 
and  impossible  flowers  that  almost  smell  of  a  cheap  de- 
partment store.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  an  ormolu 
clock,  daintily  wrought,  surmounts  a  cracked  mantel- 
shelf of  mustard-colored  marble.  On  the  end  of  the 
shelf  stands  a  large  pink  box  of  bonbons,  with  cover 
aside  and  paper-lace  frippery  fringing  the  edges.  At 
right,  a  recess  behind  portieres.  At  left,  two  windows, 
of  which  the  soiled  white  casing  is  only  partly  hidden 
by  greenish  velours  curtains,  threadbare  with  age.  Be- 
tween these  and  the  mustard-colored  mantel-shelf  (here 
she  sank  back  with  more  satisfaction)  a  low  sofa  stands 
obliquely  beside  the  hearth.  Behind  it  a  lamp ;  before 
it  a  coal  fire  fallen  to  embers  low  in  the  grate.  (She 
now  reclosed  her  eyes  and  settled  among  the  cushions. 
Henceforth  she  had  an  advantage  over  the  ordinary 
playwright  in  that  she  could  stipulate  as  to  the  appear- 
ance of  the  heroine.)  On  the  sofa  Celeste  is  discovered 
asleep,  or  dead.  The  lines  of  her  diminutive  figure 
are  defined  by  the  effulgent  lamp ;  she  wears  a  clinging 
peignoir  of  black  silk  overlaid  with  gauze.  Under  the 
film  the  silk  is  shot  with  indeterminate  silver  crescents. 
These  lend  touches  of  a  vague  sheen  to  the  shadowy 
garment.  The  silver  is  merely  an  impression,  im- 
palpable, moon  -  colored,  necromantic.  Imparting  an 
effect  lunescent  and  yet  cloudy,  it  mysteriously  allures 
the  senses  as  the  moon  allures  the  tide.  Her  face  is 
softly  illumined  by  the  glowing  coals.  With  peculiar 
appropriateness,  she  is  fairly  bathed  in  artificial  light. 

7 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

Yet  the  face  itself  is  dimly  seen.  The  shadows  lurking 
in  her  hair  seem  to  lengthen  downward;  they  deepen 
the  mystery  of  her  slumber.  On  the  floor  lies  a  book 
discarded;  an  empty  arm-chair  is  at  her  side. 

She  began  to  imagine  the  action  of  the  piece.  Thus : 
A  bell  rings,  a  step  is  heard.  Enter  suddenly  the  cat's- 
paw.  He  pauses,  advances,  gazes  down,  then  —  cur- 
tain! 

How  original,  how  daring!  What  a  tableau  for  the 
opening  act!  Who  else  could  so  coquet  with  the  pro- 
prieties, yet  never  actually  offend?  Thus  are  the  farces 
of  the  Varie'te's  veiled  for  the  Madison  Square.  Subtly 
she  appreciated  virtue.  Was  it  not  an  expedient  al- 
ways to  be  guarded  as  the  most  valuable  asset  of  am- 
bition? In  the  old  dark  days  of  the  quais  and  alleys, 
come  who  might  to  the  Quarter,  this  one  possession 
she  had  hoarded,  so  to  speak,  by  an  unusual  freak 
of  shrewdness.  Though  in  language  and  thought  and 
knowledge  of  things  no  better  than  the  rest,  she  had 
never  forfeited,  as  they  had,  the  first  advantage.  They 
had  called  her  "La  P'tite  qui  Refuse."  Yet  it  had  all 
been  a  question  of  expediency.  None  had  considered 
her  harmless.  "Beware!"  once  had  counselled  a  priest 
of  Notre  Dame;  "she  is  dangerous.  Even  her  virtue  is 
evil." 

Celeste,  now  recalling  this  reported  warning,  laughed 
aloud.  Dangerous?  Not  a  bit,  save  that  all  fascina- 
tion is  dangerous,  willy-nilly.  If  a  man  by  merely 
looking  loses  himself,  wherein  is  the  woman  to  blame  ? 
Her  little  comedy  would  shame  reproach.  "  Honi  soit," 
and  so  forth.  How  convenient  is  the  motto  of  the 
Garter!  Complications?  Yes,  why  not?  She  enjoy- 
ed a  farce  at  sixes-and-sevens,  provided  she  could  be 
fairly  certain  of  the  end.  Well  and  good ;  ring  up  the 
curtain! 

With  a  smile  of  derision  at  the  taller  figure  on  the 

8 


Time's    Forelock 

timepiece,  Celeste  sprang  lightly  from  her  couch. 
Slipping  to  the  hearth,  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and 
laughingly  tweaked  between  thumb  and  forefinger 
the  almost  invisible  forelock  of  Time.  "There,"  she 
cried,  "run  away  now  if  you  can  before  the  heart  is 
finished!" 

At  this  very  moment,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  the 
hammer  of  Cupid  fell.  The  clock  began  to  strike.  Ting! 
She  stepped  back.  Ting !  ting  !  rang  the  tiny  heart  on 
the  anvil  —  nine  times. 

She  looked  surprised.  Only  nine?  No  later?  Her 
face  brightened ;  she  had  by  no  means  lost.  This  was 
the  hour  mentioned  in  her  note.  She  ran  to  the  window. 
As  a  rule  he  was  promptness  personified.  She  threw 
up  the  sash.  Never  had  he  missed  his  cue  for  an  en- 
trance. She  wrapped  the  peignoir  close  about  her.  The 
night  was  bitterly  cold.  Resting  a  hand  on  the  sill,  she 
looked  up  and  down  the  avenue.  Car  after  car  clanged 
by.  As  each  approached  the  corner  she  watched  it 
intently,  but  none  stopped.  Her  shoulders  trembled 
with  a  shiver.  She  frowned.  The  shiver  was  not  only 
from  the  cold.  The  location  fell  so  short  of  her  ideal. 
Lower  Lexington  Avenue!  What  irony  in  her  present 
position!  Yes,  but  what  congruity  as  well!  Behind  her, 
the  great  East  Side,  the  under  world;  before  her,  the 
highways  of  fashion.  She  was  poised,  one  might  say, 
between  hell  and  heaven.  Only  a  couple  of  blocks  and 
there  lay  Madison  Avenue — her  dream!  Only  a  couple 
of  blocks,  and  yet  in  the  matter  of  boarding  prices  what 
a  gulf  between!  She  glanced  down.  Gleams  of  the 
street  lights  revealed  the  stoops  and  areas  that  marked 
the  respectable  squalor,  the  lost  prosperity,  so  apparent 
in  this  desolate  row  of  houses.  Respectable?  Yes,  at 
any  rate  respectable.  Her  frown  vanished  in  a  dreary 
smile.  Respectability  was  more  desirable  than  certain 
showy  quarters  at  the  same  cost  elsewhere.  With  a  nod 

9 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

she  told  herself  that  she  would  have  willingly  paid  even 
more  for  this  than  to  be  in  any  doubtful  apartment- 
house,  even  though  it  boasted  an  elevator,  marble  col- 
umns, and  a  black  hall-boy  resplendent  in  gilt  braid. 
For  a  time  she  must  conform  to  the  code  of  irreproach- 
able mediocrity.  This  miserable  abode  served  well 
enough  for  a  compromise,  an  intermediate  state  of  pro- 
bation—  purgatory.  What  if  its  high  stoop  did  lack 
symmetry  and  mortar?  What  if  its  balusters,  once 
falsely  proclaiming  themselves  brown  stone,  now  show- 
ed shiny  in  the  gleam  like  the  sleeves  of  a  dilapidated 
coat,  and  spots  of  obvious  cast-iron  belied  pretence? 
Some  evening  in  the  opulent  future  she  would  smile 
back  to  this  from  the  lap  of  luxury  and  laugh  to  her- 
self, "How  different,  that  night  when  I  stood  by  the 
window  and  shivered  and  waited,  and  waited  and  shiv- 
ered, on  edge  with  uncertainty  and  cold!"  All  in  good 
time ;  all  in  good  time.  Where  there's  a  woman  there's 
a  will,  and  the  man  is  the  way. 

Again  she  drew  back.  A  car  was  coming.  Across 
her  vision  the  rails,  lit  by  its  head-light,  gleamed  keen. 
Clang!  went  the  bell,  and  the  wheels  grated  on  the  track. 
The  great  cumbrous  enormity,  aflare  with  lights,  alive 
with  heads,  jerked  heavily  to  a  stop.  Instantly  it  dis- 
charged a  man.  Then  off  again,  sputtering  sparks;  off 
again,  clanging  into  the  night.  She  drew  back  farther. 
He  crossed  the  street.  Recognizing  his  tall,  spare 
figure,  she  made  sure  that  to-night  its  ungainliness  was 
emphasized  by  impatience.  Next,  as  he  raised  his  head 
to  study  the  door-plates  (illegibly  tarnished  in  Dismal 
Row),  she  closed  the  window  softly.  Then  to  the 
lounge,  and,  posing  for  the  tableau,  she  listened  breath- 
less, till  finally  the  jingle- jangle  of  the  front  door-bell 
rang  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  house. 

At  last!  Ah,  now  there  could  be  no  hitch.  The  ser- 
vant had  been  instructed  to  admit  him  without  a  card. 

10 


Time's    Forelock 

"Second  floor,  front,  if  you  please."     That  would  be 
sufficient. 

Celeste  made  herself  comfortable  among  the  cushions. 
Fainter  and  fainter  the  jingle- jangle.  She  closed  her 
eyes;  she  moistened  her  lips.  The  curtain  had  been 
rung  up. 


II 

The  Feline   Principle 

A    KNOCK. 
/i.     No  answer. 

Another  and  another,  each  more  imperative  than  the 
last. 

Still  not  a  sound  from  within  the  room. 

The  door  opened. 

She  lay  as  if  lifeless,  a  figure  of  nebulous  midnight, 
bizarre,  funereal,  necromantic,  her  pall  of  impalpable 
secret  crescents  in  mysterious  accord  with  the  gleam  and 
umbrage  of  her  hair. 

She  heard  him  enter  quickly,  then  start.  Her  eye- 
lids quivered.  She  wanted  to  peer  through  her  shadowy 
lashes  —  but  no;  to  do  so  would  be  to  laugh.  His  ap- 
pearance at  the  moment  must  undoubtedly  be  absurd. 
She  determined  to  take  the  mischief  in  good  earnest. 

Presently  he  stepped  nearer.  She  held  her  breath. 
So  far  so  good.  But,  alas!  the  machinations  even  of  a 
Celeste  frequently  miscarry.  Even  those  who  from 
birth  have  an  imp  at  the  ear  are  now  and  then  hoist  with 
their  own  petard.  Mischief  is  never  reliable.  Better  no 
guardian  spirit  at  all  than  an  imp  who  apes  an  angel. 
For  example,  in  the  present  instance,  away  flitted 
Celeste's  from  her  ear  and  fell  to  tickling  her  nose.  A 
wild  desire  to  sneeze,  due  perhaps  to  her  vigil  at  the 
window,  snatched  her  back  from  the  bourn  of  death 
and  ruined  its  beautiful  melancholy.  Nevertheless,  with 
Spartan  endurance  of  the  torture  she  kept  her  eyes 

12 


The    Feline    Principle 

closed  and  checked  the  impulse  —  a  facial,  nasal,  and 
:ven  psychical  proceeding  that  served,  by  the  traces  of 
pain  on  her  features,  to  convey  the  effect  of  a  troubled 
slumber. 

At  this  she  heard  a  deep-drawn  sigh  of  relief,  and  the 
footsteps  came  softly  to  the  sofa.  As  though  in  a 
dream  she  raised  one  hand  with  languorous  grace  and 
rested  her  head  on  the  palm.  Thus  by  a  natural  change 
of  pose  she  bared  an  arm,  whereof  the  skin,  either  with  a 
faint,  inherent  olive  tinge  or  shaded  by  the  seemingly 
suffusive  darkness  of  her  hair,  conveyed  a  sensuous  im- 
pression. Her  face,  now  higher  in  the  lamp-light,  dared 
his  gaze;  her  lips  were  slightly-  parted.  Feigning  a 
dreamer's  restlessness,  she  stirred  almost  impercep- 
tibly, just  enough  to  set  a-shimmer  the  lurking  silver 
and  suggest  her  form.  The  motion  was  to  movement 
as  a  whisper  is  to  speech. 

He  bent  over  her.  She  felt  his  breath,  but  her  pulses 
refused  to  flutter.  Not  a  flush  betrayed  her,  not  a 
tremor  —  she  wished  they  would!  With  a  sudden,  in- 
consistent revulsion  she  longed  to  feel  disconcerted. 
Up  to  the  present  the  play  had  been  the  thing,  now  it 
palled;  her  interest  flagged.  Yet  how  preposterous! 
Why  should  she — she — hope  for  a  final  flurry  of  emotion, 
a  real  sensation  of  timidity  —  alarm  ?  What  folly ! 

With  a  genuine  yawn  Celeste  drowsily  raised  her 
lashes. 

He  straightened  back.     "Were  you  tired?" 

In  pretty  bewilderment  she  rose  to  a  sitting  posture. 
"Where  am  I?  How  did  you  happen — ?"  She  paused, 
frowning. 

"The  servant  told  me  to  come  right  up."  He  seated 
himself  in  the  arm-chair. 

"What!  Too  lazy,  I  suppose,  to  announce  you.  I'll 
complain  and  have  her  discharged.  But  how  did  you 
happen  to  call?" 

13 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

Her  visitor  fingered  his  mustache,  stroked  it  down- 
ward with  his  palm.  "  I  got  your  note,  of  course." 

"My  note?"  The  frown  deepened  with  perplexity. 
Then  she  nodded.  "Ah,  yes,  yes;  I  had  forgotten." 

"  Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not,"  he  shrugged  incredulous- 
ly, adding,  in  a  sure,  metallic  voice,  "Anyway,  at  last 
you've  decided  that  Matthew  Steele  is  the  one  man." 

"You  —  the  one  man!" 

He  inclined  his  large  head.  "That  was  the  under- 
standing. 'If  I  write  at  all,'  you  agreed,  'it  shall  mean 
yes."1 

Ce'leste  smiled  up  at  him  under  lowered  lids.  "Then 
your  wishes  are  still  unchanged?" 

"They  are,"  he  replied,  with  hard  certainty;  "you're 
the  only  woman  who  can  make  me  forget  my  busi- 
ness." He  spoke  impressively,  as  one  who  would  de- 
clare himself  on  a  vital  matter.  To  him  it  evidently 
meant  much,  to  her  so  little  that  she  laughed  with  an 
amusement  not  even  scornful. 

"In  men  like  you,  I  suppose,  this  is  a  proof  of  ardent 
passion!" 

"  Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not.  At  all  events,  it  can't  be 
ignored."  He  glanced  about  the  room  in  a  manner 
habitual  with  him,  the  air  of  an  appraiser  come  to  set 
a  value  on  the  furniture.  From  this  to  that  went  his 
cold  gaze,  unconcealedly  drawing  odious  comparisons. 
It  rested  on  the  etchings  an  instant  and  longer  on  the 
shabby  velours.  It  noticed  the  ormolu  clock,  but  also 
the  cracked  mantel.  It  penetrated  between  the  slight- 
ly parted  portieres  and  openly  inspected  the  bedroom. 
It  ignored  the  immaculate  drawn-work  pillow-shams, 
but  dwelt  on  the  cumbrous  black-walnut  bedstead.  It 
seemed  to  acknowledge  the  value  and  exquisite  work- 
manship noticeable  in  her  sole  souvenir  of  the  convent, 
a  silver  crucifix  hanging  just  visible  against  the  head- 
board. But  obviously  he  spent  more  time  in  observ- 

14 


The    Feline    Principle 

ing  the  boarding-house  quilt,  now — bad  luck! — thrown 
flauntingly  over  the  foot-board. 

Celeste  shuddered.  What  a  hodge-podge!  Oh,  to 
raise  her  own  belongings  above  the  level  of  a  land- 
lady's! "Well,"  she  half  apologized,  "you  see  this  is 
only  a  kind  of  cocoon.  At  first,  you  know,  in  the  horrid 
old  Quarter  I  was  merely  a  sort  of  caterpillar,  but  now 
I've  progressed  to  the  chrysalis  stage,  and  later — ah, 
some  day  —  you  shall  see  me  emerge  resplendent." 
She  was  thinking  of  one  possession  which  by  no  means 
deserved  to  be  excluded  from  the  mental  inventory  in 
the  making  of  which  she  had  nervously  followed  his 
survey.  She  owned  herself  —  best  of  all,  she  owned 
herself.  His  gaze  must  return  to  her.  She  caught  it 
back.  "Oh,  why  did  I  write?" 

"What!"  He  stared  at  her  troubled  face.  "What's 
that?" 

"Oh,  why  have  I  sent  for  you?" 

"Because  you  need  me." 

"Do  I?"  She  lay  back,  half  reclining  among  the 
cushions.  Comfortable  thus,  yet  never  more  present- 
minded,  she  could  have  posed  as  "The  Spirit  of  the 
Feline."  Shading  her  face  with  one  hand,  she  watched 
him  out  of  the  shadow.  Had  he  been  here  earlier  in  the 
evening  he  might  have  learned  a  lesson  from  the  dis- 
heartening adventure  of  Bonhomme.  The  Spirit  of  the 
Canine  exemplifies  the  better  part  of  valor  when  the 
Spirit  of  the  Feline  watches  from  the  dark.  But  Matthew 
Steele,  versed  only  in  the  outright,  the  direct,  the  big, 
plain,  forceful  methods  of  his  beginnings  in  the  West, 
practised  merely  the  law  of  survival  that  governs  the 
struggle  when  man  meets  man  or  dog  meets  dog.  As- 
sured by  her  note,  he  failed  to  suspect  any  strategy,  to 
imagine  the  claws,  to  appreciate  the  possibility  of  that 
long  psychological  stealth  and  final  spring  which  in  cer- 
tain females  of  the  genus  homo  corresponds  to  the  in- 


The    Triumph   of    Life 

stinctive  manoeuvres  of  a  cat.  And  yet,  has  she  not 
been  feared,  this  Spirit  of  the  Feline,  ever  since  the 
world  began?  Behold  her  a  power  ages  ago;  one  to  be 
placated;  stealthy,  subtle,  cat-eyed;  preying  on  men 
of  the  Nile;  deity  of  misfortune;  the  goddess  Pakht; 
attribute  of  Isis,  innate  in  the  Female  Principle.  If 
ever  divinity  was  incarnate  and  reincarnate,  she  was 
and  is  and  will  be  to  the  crack  of  doom. 

Yet  here  sat  Steele,  braving  her  present  avatar  as 
few  poor  Copts  of  the  past  would  have  braved  her 
graven  mother. 

And  Pakht  enjoyed  his  helplessness.  For  a  time  she 
held  him  to  irrelevancies,  thanks  to  a  way  she  had, 
describable  aptly — to  quote  the  comment  of  her  in- 
ward amusement — as  a  "knack  of  femininity."  This, 
where  most  men  were  concerned,  had  proved  an  ines- 
timable resource.  Whether  it  would  with  him  she  was 
not  so  sure.  He  lacked  the  romantic  self-deceit  with 
which  so  many  invested  their  amours.  Celeste  opined 
that  even  yet  men  young  and  old  find  gratification  in 
lending  a  smack  of  glamour  to  affairs  of  love,  no  mat- 
ter how  false  the  imitation,  as  though,  with  a  certain 
pathetic  reaching  back  towards  the  primordial  idyllic, 
they  would  strive  to  retain  at  least  a  noble  savagery, 
not  consciously  deflowered.  She  perceived,  however, 
that  no  such  rose  color — indicating,  perhaps,  in  many 
the  embers  of  a  dying  fire — existed  in  Matthew  Steele. 

Thus  and  so,  filling  up  the  prologue  with  illusive 
nothings,  Celeste  contemplated  the  present  specimen 
of  masculinity  much  as  she  might  have  inspected  some 
perplexing  costume  offered  at  a  bargain  sale.  With  a 
kind  of  mental  fingering  she  felt  his  fibre,  turned  him 
over  quickly  in  her  mind,  measured,  mauled,  and  val- 
ued him,  wondering  if  the  garment  would  become  her 
and  show  her  off. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  was  for  the  moment  in  danger 

16 


The    Feline    Principle 

of  losing  his  calculative  powers.  For  once  his  usual  pre- 
caution of  footing  up  a  personality  as  though  it  were 
a  balance-sheet  was  forgotten;  he  could  only  sit  there 
in  silence,  blankly  staring.  She  laughed  inwardly  at  the 
awkwardness  of  his  appearance.  In  order  to  bring  his 
chair  near  the  sofa,  his  lank  legs  were  drawn  up,  with 
knees  protruding,  which,  together  with  the  straw  color 
of  his  sparse  hair  and  mustache,  the  shallow  grayness  of 
his  eyes  and  their  opaque,  china -like  surface,  rendered 
him  at  the  present  moment  apparently  quite  lacking  in 
that  masterful  common -sense  and  good  judgment  for 
which  he  was  well  known  in  the  business  v/orld. 

Superficially  no  two  could  have  presented  a  more 
striking  contrast.  Small  almost  to  dwarfishness,  yet 
exerting  a  deep  influence,  Celeste  lay  there  and  posed 
with  an  arm  again  thrown  back  —  a  bare  arm,  umbral 
and  sensuous,  shaded  by  her  hair;  lay  there  still,  with  an 
occasional  stir  that  started  the  silver  shimmering  be- 
neath the  gauze  of  shadow;  lay  there  still,  with  graceful, 
bewitching,  mocking  languor  in  every  line  and  motion ; 
and  now — as  had  not  been  the  case  in  her  counterfeit 
slumber — with  slightly  lifted  lashes,  from  under  which 
looked  out  the  very  spirit  of  nightfall,  dusk  half-carnate, 
devious  intensities  of  the  dark. 

Steele,  on  the  contrary,  would  have  presented  to  the 
casual  a  personality  diametrically  opposed:  metallic 
commercialism,  the  embodiment  of  coinage,  a  character 
wholly  comprehended  in  the  dollar-sign.  Yet  below 
all  this  there  was  a  strange  similarity  between  them. 
What  was  natural  in  him  she  had  assimilated,  until 
calculation,  her  second  nature,  had  grown  to  be  like  his, 
the  first.  By  frequently  pursing  her  lips,  perhaps  on 
occasion  to  emphasize  refusal  or  seal  resolve,  she  had  re- 
duced their  natural  fulness,  and  her  eyes  had  acquired 
a  hard  surface,  translucent,  yet  impenetrable  as  glass. 

Recognizing  the  likeness,  Celeste  found  him  conge- 
a  17 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

nial,  a  man  who  could  understand  and  aid  her,  one  from 
whom  after  a  suitable  course  in  platonics  she  might  ob- 
literate the  troublesome  foils  of  sex. 

For  several  moments  he  kept  silence,  then,  "The  only 
woman,"  he  repeated -to  himself,  "who  can  make  me 
forget  my  business." 

Evidently  a  growing  realization  of  the  fact  appalled 
him.  She  studied  his  eyes  for  the  hundredth  time,  and 
concluded  that  even  now,  at  the  height  of  his  passion, 
they  were  little  more  than  lenses,  well  enough  in  their 
way  for  optical  purposes,  but  utterly  lacking  a  language 
of  their  own.  They  perfectly  harmonized  with  his 
mercantile  announcement.  An  automaton  was  mak- 
ing love.  A  machine  constructed  for  the  amassing  of 
money,  a  kind  of  comptometer,  one  might  call  it,  in- 
vented for  figuring,  was  declaring  itself  a  man.  Her 
amusement  at  this  grotesque  simile  lurked  in  her  eyes 
and  brightened  their  laughter. 

He  shifted  impatiently.  "Celeste,  I  tell  you  there's 
nothing  so  very  funny  about  it."  He  clasped  a  pair 
of  large,  prehensile  hands  across  his  knees.  "Haven't 
I  always  been  ready  to  mortgage  my  soul  for  your 
slightest  whim?" 

Celeste  pouted  at  the  toes  of  her  tiny  slippers.  "  Mort- 
gage! Oh,  still  it's  business,  always  business!  Your 
soul?  Do  you  call  this  negotiable  security?" 

Steele  laughed  shortly.  "I  have  plenty  of  that  too. 
I  am  rich  now." 

She  nodded  with  satisfaction.  "I  know  it."  Then  in 
a  voice  of  annoying  candor,  "That's  the  very  reason  I 
sent  you  word  of  my  whereabouts."  She  assumed  a 
frank  air  of  comradeship,  impersonal  as  though  dis- 
cussing a  third  person.  "  I  preferred  to  wait  for  the  self- 
made  man  of  middle  age."  Steele  leaned  nearer.  Even 
this  mercenary  admission  failed  to  lessen  her  magnet- 
ism; the  cold-bloodedness  of  it  seemed  actually  to  in- 

18 


The    Feline    Principle 

crease  her  power.  "Let's  see,"  she  continued,  pleas- 
antly; "you  began,  if  I  remember  the  story,  as  a  print- 
er's devil,  did  you  not?"  She  glanced  quite  openly 
at  one  of  Steele's  forefingers,  which,  though  severed  at 
the  knuckle  by  an  accident  due  to  some  error  in  the 
press-room  of  long  ago,  persisted  in  obtrusively  strok- 
ing the  wisps  of  his  mustache.  This  disfigured  mem- 
ber had  ever  fascinated  her,  being  the  only  touch  of 
the  uncommon  to  relieve  the  hopeless  mediocrity  of  his 
appearance.  "And  then,"  she  pursued  with  a  strange 
mingling  of  contempt  and  admiration,  "in  the  West 
you  peddled  cheap  novels,  whereas  now — " 

"I  publish  them." 

"Yes,  and  while  you  were  a  book  -  agent  out  there 
how  fared  Celeste?  Can  you  guess?"  He  shook  his 
head.  "  Remember,"  she  smiled  mysteriously, "  nobody 
knows  except  two  people." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"My  father  and  mother." 

"Do  they  live  in  America?" 

"No  matter.  Well,  at  about  that  time  Celeste  was  a 
model  in  Paris,  first  for  the  painter's  art,  then  for  the 
dressmaker's,  whereas  now — " 

"Whereas  now — ?"  repeated  Steele,  with  gloomy  in- 
terest. 

She  laughed  a  silvery,  tinkling  laugh.  "Whereas  now 
I  am  hoping  soon  to  patronize  both  those  schools  of 
impression!" 

His  long  lips  parted  in  a  gratified  smile.  Her  con- 
clusion promised  well  for  the  acceptance  of  a  share  of 
his  fortune. 

"  So  here  we  are,"  mused  Celeste,  abstractedly.  "  How 
interesting  to  trace  the  threads  of  destiny!  Yours 
led  you  here  across  the  continent,  mine  here  across  the 
sea.  Then  they  met,  and  parted,  and  now  they  meet 
again." 

19 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

"Which  means,"  observed  Steele,  with  an  unusual 
attention  to  metaphor,  "a  knot." 

"Yes,  or  else  " —  again  a  ring  of  mockery — "a  tangle! 
At  any  rate,  here  we  are,  and  how  have  we  done  it?  As 
for  you,  they  say  your  success  is  due  to  an  abstemious- 
ness that  would  shame  an  anchorite."  Her  eyes  ban- 
tered and  yet  admired  him.  "You've  never  let  yourself 
go,  have  you?  Nor  have  I.  That's  the  secret.  You've 
outdone  me,  though.  Is  it  true  you  drink  nothing  but 
milk  with  dinner?" 

Steele  nodded,  coldly  grave.     "Or  water." 
She  surveyed  him  with  intent,  analytical  eyes.    "Did 
it  come  by  nature?" 

"Yes,  I  have  always  disliked  extremes." 
"Have  you?  How  dull!  To  avoid  them  is  one 
thing,  to  dislike  them  another.  How  gray!"  Sudden- 
ly she  sat  up  and  flashed  a  wondering  look  at  him,  as 
if  struck  by  an  idea  exquisitely  droll  and  entertaining. 
His  utterly  colorless  personality  affected  her  much  as  a 
sheet  of  white  canvas  might  affect  a  painter  with  a  pas- 
sion for  vivid  hues.  She  longed  to  daub  his  nature 
with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Some  day  when 
her  own  success  was  assured  she  would  attempt  a  di- 
verting metamorphosis.  "I  wonder,"  she  made  bold 
to  suggest  aloud,  "if  Matthew  Steele  could  be  trans- 
formed." 

He  frowned  helplessly.  "You  did  that  long  ago." 
"No,  no.  I  mean — oh,  what  an  experiment  it  would 
be!  I  love  experiments.  Do  you  know,  there  is  an 
acute  delight  in  grafting  two  natures  together,  as  they 
do  with  trees  and  orchids  and  human  flesh.  This  is 
the  most  delicate  operation  in  psychology — a  kind  of 
metempsychosis — and  the  results — well,  once  upon  a 
time  in  Paris — "  She  paused.  "Oh,  but  Paris  is  a 
matter  of  ten  years  ago." 

"I  see,"  said  he,   "you  have  dropped  all  its  little 

20 


The   Feline   Principle 

phrases,  gestures,  etcetera."     Afraid  of  the  subject,  he 
was  striving  to  be  critical. 

Celeste  laughed  banteringly.  "  Ta-ra-ta-ta !  Pense- 
tu,  mon  p'tit?  Zometimes  I  use;  zometimes  I  don't. 
When  I  am  French — yes;  when  I  am  American — no!" 
And  she  gesticulated  with  jerky,  piquant  fingers,  like 
any  comedienne  of  the  boulevard  theatres. 

Steele  frowned.  "Then  you  still  have  need  of  an 
alias?  I  supposed  those  shady  financial  transactions, 
those  bubble  stocks,  with  you  secure  in  the  background 
and  some  poor  devil  of  a  broker  playing  the  cat's-paw —  " 

"Piff!"  she  shrugged;  "when  one  needs,  one  searches. 
But  what  was  I  saying?  Oh  yes.  How  would  it  be,  I 
wonder,  to  blend  a  little  old  world  romance  and  fire  with 
modern  commercialism?  How  would  you  seem,  for  in- 
stance, as  a  sentimentalist?  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
ceive." She  laughed  to  herself  a  low,  mischievous  laugh, 
her  eyes  the  while  analyzing  him  through  and  through. 

"You  talk  nonsense." 

"Perhaps,  perhaps;  but  we'll  see  later."  Her  imag- 
inative powers  were  distorted  and  abnormal.  To  in- 
dulge them  had  become  a  form  of  spiritual  vice.  "You 
should  have  more  ambition.  I  am  a  nobody,"  she  told 
him,  irrelevantly,  triumphant  in  the  realization  that  she 
could  show  this  man  her  worst  side,  her  true  self,  yet 
suffer  nothing  by  the  confidence. 

His  reply  surprised  her.  "I  know  it,"  he  admitted, 
with  equal  candor. 

Celeste  slipped  from  the  sofa  and  tossed  her  head. 
Crossing  to  the  hearth  she  looked  down  quizzically  at  the 
bed  of  ashes.  "Do  you,  indeed  —  do  you?"  From  the 
pink  box  of  candy  on  the  mantel-shelf  she  selected  a  tit- 
bit of  chocolate  and  allowed  it  to  melt  on  her  tongue 
slowly.  An  inordinate  love  of  bonbons  was  her  only 
dissipation.  "And  yet  I  make  you  forget  your  busi- 
ness." Her  laughter  teased  his  ears. 

21 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"That  means  more  than  you  can  guess,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "I  am  one  of  the  richest  publishers  in  Amer- 
ica." 

She  turned  from  the  fire  with  a  mock  reverence.  "  I 
bow  to  Mammon!"  Then,  nodding  frankly,  "That  is 
why  I  sent  for  you — partly  because  you  are  rich,  and 
mostly  because  you're  a  publisher." 

He  squared  as  best  he  could  his  sloping  shoulders. 
"There  can  be  only  one  reason,"  he  said,  dully,  "for 
your  invitation." 

"Ah,  mais  non."  She  tossed  her  head.  "Croyez- 
vous,  m'sieur,  pour  un  moment  que  vous  connaissez  la 
vie,  ou  bien  les  pense'es  d'une  femme?" 

Steele  shifted.  "How  in  the  world,"  he  mentally  re- 
gretted, "could  I  have  mentioned  this  meaningless 
twaddle?"  Then,  aloud,  "Speak  English!" 

"  One  reason?  Only  onef"  she  scoffed.  " There's  never 
only  one  with  a  woman.  Either  there  are  fifty,  remem- 
ber, or  none  at  all.  You  say  I'm  a  nobody,  do  you?" 
Her  eyes  snapped.  "  Well,  you  shall  pay  the  penalty  for 
not  having  contradicted  me  when  I  said  the  same  thing 
myself.  Why  did  I  send  for  you?  Do  you  suppose  it 
was  to  say  '  yes  '  ?  How  droll !  Do  you  suppose  it  was 
because  I  needed  you?  How  presumptuous!  Listen." 
Once  more  averting  her  face,  she  looked  down  into  the 
grate,  where  a  last  ember,  outliving  the  rest,  was  fad- 
ing slowly  in  the  ashes.  Her  voice  fell  low  and  serious. 
"  Listen !  The  fact  is,  that  after  keeping  my  head  so  long 
I  have  suddenly  lost  it.  I  am  in  love  with  a  mere  boy!" 

After  which  amazing  declaration  Celeste  raised  her  el- 
bows to  the  mantel-shelf  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

While  she  stood  there  the  clock  above  her  began  to 
strike.  The  farrier's  hammer  fell.  Ting!  rang  the  tiny 
heart  on  the  anvil — ten  times. 


Ill 

The  Man  Who   Turned  Atcay 

NOW  should  the  Canine  Principle  have  prompted  a 
wary  reconnoitre  about  the  lair  of  the  Ulterior  Mo- 
tive. Now  should  prudence  have  intervened.  Where 
there  are  two  there  is  ever  one.  Pity  the  other.  Egged 
on  in  the  present  instance  by  chagrin,  curiosity,  and 
other  malicious  urchins  of  character,  he  adopted  from 
valor  the  unwiser  part.  The  dog  still  hoped  to  have  his 
day.  Waiting,  he  stared,  very  houndlike,  fascinated  by 
the  deviousness  of  a  different  species. 

Was  she  already  confessing,  Steele  helplessly  won- 
dered, to  a  flaw  in  that  cold,  far-sighted  policy  which  he 
had  so  long  hoped  would  eventually  bring  her  to  him? 
Or  had  she  invented  the  rival  merely  to  kindle  his  jeal- 
ousy ? 

With  her  next  move  the  Ulterior  Motive  drew  him 
deeper  into  the  lair.  "But  I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  con- 
tinued to  muse,  "whether  I've  cause  to  love  or  hate  this 
boy."  She  faced  her  visitor;  the  long-lived  ember  had 
expired  at  last.  "You  see,  it's  this  way."  She  paused. 
"Heavens! — don't,  don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  She 
pretended  to  shudder.  His  eyes,  wide  with  bewilder- 
ment, suggested  the  stock  in  trade  of  an  optician;  the 
average  pair  in  a  show-case;  the  conventional  pair 
drawn  up  with  a  dozen  in  line;  staring,  white,  convex, 
profanely  hollow.  "And  yet  how  beautiful,"  she  scin- 
tillated to  herself,  "in  the  sight  of  the  blind!  Don't,  I 
implore  you!  What  a  picture  of  despair!  Close  them," 
\  23 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

she  commanded,  half  between  chaff  and  earnest.  "  Lower 
your  eyelids.  Cap  the  shutter  of  that  staring  camera. 
I  sha'n't  sleep  a  wink  to-night." 

He  settled  back  in  the  chair,  biting  his  lips,  narrowing 
his  eyes,  fidgeting;  hobbled  by  the  multitude  of  internal 
infernal  urchins  that  had  picked  the  encounter;  for  all 
the  world  like  a  large,  ungainly,  but  once  sagacious 
mongrel  fallen  on  sorry  days. 

"Thank  you,"  laughed  Ce'leste,  leaning  back  against 
the  mantel-shelf.  "That's  not  so  frightening  as  before. 
But  to  go  on.  You  see,  it's  this  way.  I  went  on  a  certain 
fateful  evening  early  last  summer  for  supper  to  Del's 
with  one  of  my  former  hopes  and  present  disappoint- 
ments, Gol  O'Brien.  The  sobriquet  'Gol'  is  short  for 
Goliath,  this  Philistine  is  so  immense.  His  name  is 
Guy.  Have  you  met  him?  No?  Small  loss.  And  yet 
he's  diverting  enough  for  an  hour  in  the  month — huge, 
good-humored,  pleased  by  anything.  A  son  of  O'Brien, 
the  millionaire  contractor,  he  hangs  cheerfully,  I  am  told, 
on  the  outskirts  of  society,  hand-in-glove  with  the  bach- 
elors of  easy  views.  They  are  very  intimate  with  his 
fortune.  He  is,  you  might  say,  a  sort  of  monumental 
pudding,  surrounded  by  the  thumbs  of  innumerable  Jack 
Homers.  Yes,  yes;  we  all  sponge  on  Goliath  now  and 
then,  with  the  exception  of  two  men — old  friends.  You 
shall  hear  about  one  of  these  two  this  minute." 

In  spite  of  her  promise,  Ce'leste  paused.  With  the  toe 
of  one  slipper  she  began  to  trace  the  immediate  pattern 
of  the  hearth-rug,  until  at  length,  when  its  figures  had 
possibly  rendered  her  thoughts  more  symmetrical,  she 
looked  up  and  off  in  abstraction,  as  though  to  invest  some 
far  less  coherent  weave  of  circumstance  with  a  similar 
lucidity  of  design. 

Dreamily  she  smiled.  "I  am  there  again,  and  yet 
how  obscure  are  the  beginnings  of  things.  We  never 
know.  We  don't  realize.  The  commonplace  of  life 

24 


The   Man  Who  Turned  Atcag 

drags  on  for  a  while  after  the  curtain's  up.  It  takes 
time  to  accustom  one's  self  to  the  vivid  colors,  the  fine 
heroics.  We  laugh;  we  don't  believe.  But  soon,  of 
course,  it  carries  us  away."  She  sighed  prettily.  "How 
tiresome  a  long  entr'acte!  Ring  it  up  again — ring  it  up 
again!  Excite  me,  impossible  hero!  Startle  me  into 
emotion!  Make  me  yawn  to  hide  a  thrill."  Pausing, 
Celeste  smiled,  then  shrugged.  "Oh,  la-la-la!"  she 
scoffed,  with  an  instinctive  return  to  the  derisiveness 
of  her  girlhood.  "P'tite  Celeste — 1'ing^nue!  C'est  bien 
drole!"  She  opened  her  eyes  again  to  distance,  de- 
termining the  weave.  "I  suppose  you  know  the  mise- 
en-scene  and  the  supernumeraries, 'also  the  cast.  There 
sat  the  usual  evening  crowd,  all  the  rich  of  both  worlds, 
the  beau-mondaine  who  practise  the  gentle  art  of  satanics 
in  private  and  the  demi-mondaine  of  the  public  school. 

"  But  across  the  room  sat  a  man  apart — different — 
unlike  them  all.  He  was  well  dressed  and  young,  yet 
evidently  individual,  unconventional,  obedient  only  to 
tastes  of  his  own.  All  about  him  the  tide  of  wine  had 
risen  to  flood.  Under  the  electric  candles  every  glass — 
but  who  has  ever  described  in  the  wine's  own  language 
a  glass  of  champagne?  A  glass  of  champagne?"  She 
held  aloft  one  hand  with  a  dashing  air,  thumb  and  fore- 
finger together,  and  apostrophized  an  imaginary  sparkle. 
"A  glass  of  champagne?  Ah,  yes,  it  is  a  liquescent 
topaz,  the  only  jewel  that  we  drink!"  She  laughed  at 
Steele.  "How's  that?" 

He  frowned  heavily. 

"Oh,  come!"  she  mocked;  "kindly  lend  yourself  to 
the  performance." 

He  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  long  mouth.  "I 
publish  that  sort  of  thing  in  paper  covers  once  a  week." 

This  she  dismissed  with  a  low  laugh,  keen  and  faint, 
as  though  her  imaginary  glass  had  touched  another. 
"Good!  I  must  write  a  novel  some  day."  She  lowered 

25 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

her  hand  and  looked  down  meditatively,  as  though 
into  the  depths  of  wine.  "How  delightful  to  be  fa- 
mous— a  star — a  star  with  slavish  satellites — nice,  re- 
volving, staring,  moonish  people,  reflecting  your  radi- 
ance, always  around  you!  But  I  couldn't.  No,  not 
possibly."  She  shook  her  little  head  and  pouted.  : 
couldn't  sit  down  to  a  single  page.  It's  different  to  say 
things  and  to  write  them."  She  raised  again  the  cup  of 
fancy.  "Champagne  says  things."  She  held  a  little 
ear  down  to  her  finger.  "Hear  it  whisper.  What  does 
it  say?  .  .  .  '  I  am  the  spirit  of  Paris  —  the  pseudo- 
soul.  I  am  the  ghost  of  sunshine  that  dies  on  the  fields 
at  dusk.' "  She  straightened  up,  smiled  at  him,  bowed 
him  a  silent  toast,  then,  as  if  recklessly  dashing  a  draught 
to  her  lips,  made  a  pretence  of  tossing  it  down  like  a  true 
bacchante.  This  done,  she  inverted  her  hand,  with  a 
laugh,  to  prove  the  goblet  empty. 

Steele  relaxed  with  relief,  hoping,  now  that  the  mad- 
dening by-play  was  over,  she  would  come  to  the  point 
quickly. 

Noting  the  look,  Celeste  arched  her  eyebrows  in  feigned 
surprise.  "What!  Do  you  think  that's  all  ?  Do  you  for 
an  instant  suppose  the  ghost  is  so  easily  laid?  No,  no; 
he's  inside  of  me  now!  He  is  my  own  spirit,  remember. 
...  'I  am  the  spirit  of  Paris — the  pseudo-soul.  I  am 
the  ghost  of  sunshine  that  dies  on  the  fields  at  dusk.'" 
Suddenly  she  frowned.  "Yes,  yes;  but  he — the  youth 
— would  have  none  of  me.  You  shall  hear. 

"There  he  sat,  as  I  say,  alone,  and,  behold!  he  was 
drinking  old  ale  from  an  earthen  mug,  and  instead  of  the 
microscopic  birds — germs  of  nightmare — miserably  in- 
spected by  the  rest,  he  had  ordered  a  brace  of  English 
chops,  which  with  a  sound  appetite  he  demolished.  .  .  . 
And  yet  there  was  nothing  heavy  in  his  look,  nothing 
stolid.  Quite  the  reverse.  Never  have  I  seen  a  pair  of 
eyes  so  eloquent  of  airy  lightness,  a  gayety  so  healthy, 

26 


The  Man  Who  Turned  Atoay 

so  natural,  so  free.  Those  eyes  of  his  even  shamed  the 
liquescent  topaz.  They  possessed  the  living  sunshine — 
sunshine  awake  on  the  fields  at  dawn.  That's  it.  He 
was  Nature  corporate — refreshing,  pristine,  healthy  Nat- 
ure; the  very  spirit  of  out-of-doors.  While  we — well, 
hardly  that,  you  know."  Her  eyes  fell.  "He  is  very 
young — not  over  twenty  or  twenty-one,  I  should  say — 
just  from  college.  ...  I  can't  describe  the  face.  It 
has  what  yours  and  mine  can  never  have — what  very 
few  can  have — not  one  in  ten  thousand — innate  inno- 
cence, confident  optimism,  perennial  youth.  Think  of 
it!  .  .  ."  She  looked  up.  "Oh,  la -la!"  Turning, 
she  shook  her  box  of  bonbons  and  pried  with  a  finger 
among  its  contents  to  effect  a  choice.  Inadequate 
refuge!  Futile  retreat!  Her  thoughts  caught  her  back 
to  the  figure  in  the  weave.  "He  has  the  look" — she 
mused  to  the  sugar-plums — "the  look  and  bearing  of  an 
Arcadian  creature,  unmarred,  primordial,  made  before 
man  had  learned  to  name  anything  but  the  animals." 
She  laughed,  selected  a  creamy  morsel,  and  touched  it  to 
her  lips.  "His  friends  call  him  'Angel';  but  no,  that  is 
too  unearthly.  To  me  he  is  a  pagan  god."  Again  her 
laughter  tinkled  like  a  crystal  bell  and  she  popped  the 
dainty  into  her  mouth. 

Steele,  with  tardy  decision,  started  to  rise.  "I  am 
going,"  he  said. 

"  What,  in  the  middle  of  my  story?" 

"Yes,  it  fails  to  interest  me." 

"Wait — wait.  Remember,  I  may  dislike  him" — her 
voice  fell  to  a  deeper  note  and  her  eyes  were  unquestion- 
ably sincere — "with  a  dislike  more  dangerous  than  my 
love.  His  name,  by-the-way,  is  Enoch  Lloyd." 

"Enoch  Lloyd?" 

"Yes." 

"I've  heard  of  him  somewhere." 

"  Oh,  he's  written  a  book."  She  pointed  to  the  cloth- 

27 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

bound  volume  on  the  floor.  "It's  called  The  Greatest 
Good:' 

Steele  nodded  with  aroused  interest,  an  incident  of 
business  easing  his  impatience.  "  One  of  old  Lee's  pub- 
lications. Very  honorable  old  firm,  Stephen  Lee  and 
Company.  'I'm  thinking  of  buying  it  out  for  the  name." 

"Are  you?  How  condescending!  But  to  return  to 
Lloyd  again — I'm  always  doing  so  nowadays — I  read  a 
page  or  two  and  threw  it  there.  The  book  bored  me. 
It's  true,  the  opening  read  like  his  face — high-flown,  you 
know,  and  lofty.  But — oh,  I  prefer  that  sort  of  thing  in 
flesh  and  blood!"  The  last  was  said  with  a  low  kind  of 
purr,  pusslike,  as  though  she  would  observe  that  beauti- 
ful plumage  in  the  air  is  all  very  fine,  but  beautiful  plu- 
mage on  the  ground  is  better.  "Well,  as  Goliath  had 
been  to  college  with  him,  I  suggested  an  introduction. 
O'Brien,  the  ever-obedient,  went  across  to  where  Lloyd 
sat.  Of  course  I  could  not  hear  their  words,  but  this 
part  of  it  I  remember  only  too  well:  after  O'Brien  had 
spoken  Lloyd  glanced  over  at  me,  then  away,  and  Go- 
liath sheepishly  came  back  alone.  He  muttered  some 
lame  excuse;  said  his  friend  wasn't  well — tried  to  hide 
Lloyd's  refusal.  Yes,  it  was  a  point-blank  refusal. 
The  boy  had  politely  declined  to  meet  me,  before  my 
very  eyes.  He  preferred  his  ale  to  the  ghost  of  sun- 
shine." Ce'leste  laughed  a  short,  harsh  laugh,  not  un- 
like Matthew  Steele's.  "You  can  see,"  she  said,  "how 
pleasant  it  was." 

Steele  shrugged  his  sloping  shoulders.  "There  are 
fools  in  the  world." 

"Wait!"  She  stayed  him  breathlessly.  "Doesn't  it 
occur  to  you  that  his  reason  may  either  have  been  ut- 
terly unbearable  or  the  most  flattering  in  the  world?" 

Matthew  twirled  the  drooping  mustache  with  his 
semi-forefinger.  "How  so?" 

"The  first  supposition — a  horrid  one — is  that  he  re- 

28 


fused  because  my  —  well,  my  slightly,  very  slightly, 
demi-mondaine  appearance  repelled  his  innocence.  On 
the  other  hand  —  and  here's  the  second  horn  of  my 
dilemma — he  may  have  had  so  strong  a  desire  that  he 
denied  himself  the  introduction  for  the  good  of  his  soul ! 
Which  do  you  think  it  was?" 

She  turned  half  away,  moved  her  shoulders,  tossed 
her  head  to  a  piquant  poise,  and,  lowering  her  lashes, 
looked  under  them  sideways,  as  though  for  a  moment 
imagination  had  succeeded  in  apotheosizing  even  Steele 
to  the  level  of  her  Olympian  prodigy.  Deep  in  the 
shadows  of  her  eyes  glimmered  a  vaguely  disturbing 
light  —  the  light  of  invitation.  They  were  far  from 
smiling;  nevertheless,  the  spark  seemed  to  promise  a 
smile,  as  a  smile  may  promise  a  laugh.  The  look  was 
luminous,  intimate,  veiled,  sympathetic,  as  if  it  would 
say,  "We  have  something  in  accord,  you  and  I.  We 
could  understand  each  other."  And  the  look  was  flat- 
tering. "I  could  appreciate  you,"  it  seemed  to  say. 
And  tender,  "I  could  love  you."  And  passionate, 
"Youth,  come  to  me;  bring  flame  to  flame!"  And 
yet  it  was  open,  free,  humorous,  "We  could  laugh  to- 
gether, you  and  I."  All  this  in  a  single  glance,  a  single 
instant;  then  out  went  the  light  of  her  eyes.  They 
fluttered  into  focus  and  regarded  Steele  with  casual 
coldness,  as  though  now,  suddenly,  his  metamorphosed 
personality  had  vanished.  "There!"  she  muttered, 
moodily;  "even  after  that,  milord  Incomparable  calm- 
ly and  coolly  turned  away.  Which  do  you  think  was 
the  reason?" 

Steele,  ignoring  the  question,  started  towards  her. 
"The  very  look!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely.  "The  very 
glance  with  which — "  He  paused,  biting  his  lengthy 
upper  lip,  narrowing  his  gaze. 

"Well?"  she  smiled,  amusedly. 

" — with  which  you  caught  me." 

39 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

"Caught  you?  I!  You!  Caught!1'  Her  eyes  flash- 
ed. "Oh,  you  shall  pay  for  that  word.  Yes,  pay  dear. 
You  shall  bring  him  to  me!" 

Steele  smothered  an  oath. 

"Oh,  see  here,"  she  said,  more  lightly;  "it's  nothing 
but  a  whim."  She  laid  her  hand  on  one  of  his  stoop- 
ing shoulders.  "Surely  you'll  do  this  much.  I  want  to 
meet  him  merely  to  gratify  my  curiosity.  A  caprice, 
that's  all.  I  want  to  find  out  why  he  refused.  Do  you 
see?  That's  all.  You  will,  won't  you?" 

Steele  made  a  weaker  objection.  The  touch  of  her 
hand  had  told.  "  How  can  I  ?" 

"Oh,  of  course  it  must  be  done  naturally.  The  thing 
mustn't  seem  far-fetched.  Don't  ask  for  an  introduc- 
tion. Are  you  apt  to  meet  this  Enoch  Lloyd?" 

"No — at  least — that  depends.  Well,  there's  a  slight 
chance.  But  why  on  earth  should  7 — ?" 

"  Depends  on  what?"  she  urged  him,  softly. 

"  It  may  possibly  depend  on  whether  or  not  this  book 
of  his  succeeds." 

"Why?" 

Steele  was  now  on  his  own  ground.  She  noted  a 
slight  protrusion  of  the  lower  jaw,  a  facial  gesture  by 
which  his  chin  gained  strength.  This  is  the  signal  of 
self-reliance  common  to  those  who  have  succeeded  only 
by  asserting  themselves.  It  bespeaks  a  man  whose 
methods  in  business  are  no  less  brutal  than  those  of  a 
pugilist  in  the  ring. 

"Why?"  she  repeated,  gently. 

"Nothing,  except —  You  see  when  these  youngsters 
fail  with  grand  ideas  and  in  the  hands  of  heavy-respect- 
able publishers,  like  Stephen  Lee  and  Company,  they 
often  come  to  us  in  the  end  and  we  make  them  turn  out 
salable  merchandise.  Dignity  be  damned!" 

"I  understand,"  said  Ce'leste,  thoughtfully.  "//  he 
Jails,  he  may  come  to  you."  She  took  one  of  his 

3° 


The   Man  Who   Turned  Atoay 

large,  crude  hands  in  both  of  her  own.  "Then  you  will 
introduce  him  to  me." 

He  stooped  weakly  over  her.     "  But  why — " 

"No  ' huts'!"  she  smiled,  pressing  his  fingers. 

"Why,  if— " 

"'Buts'  and  'ifs,'"  she  commented,  then  paused,  by 
hesitancy  to  make  an  earlier  epigram  seem  sponta- 
neous. ' '  Buts  '  and  '  ifs  '  are  weeds  in  the  garden  of 
language.  Come,  say  you  will.  He's  away  now  on 
O'Brien's  yacht  in  foreign  waters.  They  return,  I 
think,  in  the  spring.  If  you're  going  to  try  and  buy 
out  the  Lee  firm,  can't  you  meet  Lloyd  through  one 
of  the  partners  in  some  way?" 

"There's  only  one — old  Stephen." 

"Well,  through  him,  then."  She  came  very  close  to 
the  cat's  paw.  "Think  what  you  will  gain  by  it." 

Steele  kept  moving  his  long  underlip.  "Does  Lloyd 
live  in  New  York?" 

"No;  somewhere  in  New  England.  He  camps  out,  I 
believe,  on  a  lonely  shore,  beautifully  Arcadian,  primi- 
tive,'loaf -of -bread -and -jug -of -wine'  sort  of  life,  you 
know — only  probably  you  don't  know,  being  sadly  ig- 
norant of  the  poets.  But  with  him  there's  no  '  thou' — 
as  yet.  The  '  thou,'  you  see,  comes  last  but  not  least 
in  the  line  quoted.  It  is  the  natural  end  of  natural 
philosophy — the  rhyme  of  reason." 

Celeste  laughed  and  screwed  up  her  brows.  "But 
what  do  I  know  about  it?  I?  Nothing  whatever. 
Only  he  looks  like  the  frontispiece  in  a  book  of  lyrics. 
And  I — oh,  it's  all  so  mixed  up!  Very  bewildering! 
.  .  .  Have  I  ever  told  you  about  Phillipot  Le  Coq? 
No?  Well,  Phillipot,  they  say,  was  a  gamin  of  Paris 
in  about  the  year  1775.  One  night,  into  the  room  of  a 
great  writer  who  lived  in  the  rue  Platiere — none  other, 
if  you'll  believe  me,  than  the  immortal  Rousseau — our 
friend  Phillipot  poked  his  nose,  looking  for  food  or  some- 

31 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

thing  that  would  buy  it.  Quick  as  a  wink  was  Phillipot. 
But  quicker  yet  the  eye  of  Monsieur  Rousseau.  'Vo- 
leur!'  cried  he,  and  seized  poor  Le  Coq  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck.  '  No,  no,  no,'  sobbed  Phillipot.  Rousseau  scowled. 
'Why,  then,  do  you — '  'Ah,  m'sieur,  I  have  heard  you 
are  such  a  fine  poet  I  wanted  to  look  at  you,  just  to 
see  what  a  fine  poet  is!'  'Oh,  indeed?'  'Oui,  oui,  it's 
true,  m'sieur;  you  see  I've  learned  to  make  rhymes  my- 
self.' Whereupon  the  inimitable  Jean  Jacques,  flat- 
tered and  amazed,  instantly  demanded  that  the  offender 
should  prove  his  innocence  by  spouting  forthwith  a 
specimen  of  his  composition.  Phillipot,  to  the  further 
astonishment  of  the  poet,  up  and  did  so.  You  see  there 
was  a  grain  of  truth  in  his  plea.  'Norn  de  Dieu!'  ex- 
claimed Jean  Jacques,  'you  are  a  natural  child  of  the 
muse,  an  illegitimate  son' — those  were  his  words — 'an 
illegitimate  son  of  the  muse — straight  in  the  line,  but 
unrecognized.  You  shall  go  to  school!'  And  Phillipot 
went  to  school,  and  Jean  Jacques  sent  him  on  errands 
and  helped  him.  But  Phillipot  ran  away  one  day  and 
took  to  the  petit  verre,  and  got  miserably  drunk  and 
made  love  to  a  girl  of  the  quais  and  alleys,  and  together 
they  went  to  the  devil.  After  which  there  were  no  more 
poems.  The  girl,  by-the-way,  later  on,  some  time  after 
her  husband's  patron  was  dead  and  buried,  played  no 
idle  part  in  the  Revolution,  and  was  called  '  La  Fille  de  la 
Guillotine' — she  loved  it  so!  Now,  who  do  you  think 
those  two  fine  rascals  were?" 

Steele  shook  his  head.  He  had  paid  little  attention  to 
the  story. 

"They  were,  it  seems  probable — though,  of  course,  a 
nobody  can  never  be  sure — my  great-grandfather  and 
great  -  grandmother.  Pere  Ame'de'e,  a  little  old  baker 
in  the  Quarter — eighty  or  ninety,  if  a  day — told  me  his 
father  had  said  so,  and  I  might  as  well  believe  the  tale  as 
not.  So  you  see  the  blood  of  a  poet  has  dribbled  down 

32 


The   Man  Who   Turned   Atoag 

to  me,  and  I  say  things  and  think  things  unlike  the  ruck. 
Moreover,  I've  cultivated  the  knack  of  words."  Celeste 
nodded  with  an  unpleasantly  knowing  look  of  cupidity 
and  calculation.  "  It  may  be  very  useful  later  on.  Who 
knows?  Words  work  wonders  in  this  country,  and 
there's  no  telling  what  I  may  take  to  if  you  put  yourself 
out  of  the  race  by  refusing  to  grant  this  little  favor. 
I'll  go  back  to  financiering;  or  perhaps  I  shall  start 
a  beautiful,  little,  white  -  and  -  gold  millinery  shop  in 
Fifth  Avenue.  I've  often  thought  of  that."  She 
looked  up  at  him,  smiling.  "But  this  won't  be  nec- 
essary, will  it,  mon  cher?  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  gratify  this  one  whim  —  and  tlien  —  but  say  you 
will." 

Steele,  hopeless,  made  no  answer.  His  silence  was 
consent. 

She  patted  his  hand  and  released  it.  "I  knew  you 
would.  It's  nothing  but  a  caprice;  that's  all." 

"Then  why  are  you  so  crazy  to  meet  him?" 

She  glanced  at  the  confectioner's  box.  "As  well  ask 
me  why  in  the  world  I  am  so  fond  of  nougat.  Here, 
have  one."  Selecting  a  long,  rectangular  sweetmeat, 
she  held  it  mischievously  to  his  lips. 

" No,"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  disgust;  "the  stuff  is  un- 
wholesome." 

She  nibbled  it  herself.  "Perhaps;  but  very  delicious. 
Well,  you  must  go  now.  Good-night.  Oh,  wait.  No; 
never  mind."  It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  sug- 
gest that  Steele  should  casually  mention  to  Lloyd  the 
advantages  of  a  little  French  restaurant  on  the  south 
side  of  Washington  Square  which  was  soon  to  be  en- 
larged to  a  boarding-house.  At  present  it  was  called 
"The  Caniche  Blanc."  She  had  an  interest  in  the  vent- 
ure. But  second  thoughts  prevailed.  O'Brien  would  be 
a  better  medium  in  this  instance.  It  is  well  to  have 
even  a  medium  unsuspecting. 
3  33 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

Steele's  brows  knitted  in  perplexity.  "What  were 
you — " 

"Oh,  nothing.  Don't  ask  questions.  It  was  merely  a 
matter  of  business.  I'll  tell  you  later.  Good-night; 
and  come  again  any  time  after  the  introduction." 

He  caught  the  hand  with  the  nougat.  "No  more 
conditions,  then?" 

She  shook  her  head  coquettishly.  "No  more — then," 
wherewith,  extricating  her  fingers  from  his  huge  grasp, 
she  filliped  the  last  little  crumb  to  her  tongue  and  let  it 
dissolve  slowly. 

Steele  turned  on  his  heel  in  silence,  strode  out,  and 
hastened  heavily  down  the  stairs  as  though  he  feared 
that  some  unwelcome  sound — the  tinkle,  perhaps,  of 
her  never-forgettable  laughter — might  follow  him  to  the 
street. 

For  months  it  had  troubled  Celeste,  this  matter  of 
Enoch  Lloyd,  piquing  and  flattering  her  by  turn. 
Either  it  was  an  insult,  or  the  truest  kind  of  compliment. 
Either  this  boy,  who  so  unexpectedly  had  caught  her 
capricious  fancy,  was  indifferent  or  afraid.  Fear  of  that 
sort  she  could  readily  forgive ;  indifference,  never.  As- 
suredly she  must  meet  him  and  learn  the  truth;  must 
meet  the  first  puzzling  enigma  of  masculinity — a  man 
who  had  turned  away. 

Gliding  gracefully  into  her  bedroom,  she  knelt  down. 
Her  worship  of  the  sacred  image,  now  hanging  above  her 
head,  was  what  may  well  be  termed  exquisite  profanity. 
On  her  silver  chatelaine  she  wore  a  miniature  hunch- 
back about  an  inch  long,  a  sort  of  talisman,  a  porte- 
bonheur.  So  far  as  the  superstition  yet  frivolity  of  her 
reverence  carried  her,  she  might  have  classed  both  pos- 
sessions in  the  same  category. 

With  petulant  coquetry  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
prayed  that  Enoch  Lloyd  might  fail. 

34 


The  Man  Who  Turned  Atoay 

And  p'tit  Bonhomme,  the  dachshund,  emerging  gin- 
gerly from  under  the  bed,  sat  there  cocking  an  eye  at 
her,  as  though  wondering  why  his  mistress  should  so 
frequently  imitate  his  own  little  trick  with  mimic  pe- 
titions to  the  ceiling. 


Book    II 


The   Return    of   the    "Jamboree" 

THE  master  of  the  light-ship  woke  suddenly,  not 
from  sleep,  but  a  sort  of  molluscan  lethargy  com- 
mon to  cuttle-fish,  oysters,  and  various  other  cogitators 
of  the  deep.  He  stood  up  and  blinked  at  the  setting 
sun.  With  eyes  agape  he  raised  a  binocular.  Like  any 
dame  gossip  absorbed  by  the  gaddings  of  her  neighbors 
in  the  near-by  town,  Ezra  Slocum  kept  a  good  watch 
on  the  passers-by.  Of  all  these  commercial  craft  plod- 
ding up  Narragansett  Bay,  heavy-laden  and  scupper- 
deep,  or  returning  again  towards  Point  Judith  and  the 
Sound,  scarcely  one  ever  missed  his  notice.  Their  new 
sails,  funnels,  coats  of  paint,  were  no  less  a  matter  of 
criticism  and  concern  to  him  than  the  new  bonnets  and 
clothes  of  her  fellow-townswomen  to  the  crone  at  the 
street  window.  If  these  ordinary  sojourners — the  pro- 
saic barges  and  their  kind — so  kindled  the  gleam  of 
curiosity  in  his  roving  eyes,  how  much  worthier  of  in- 
terest the  vessel  he  now  descried. 

With  the  sun  flaming  in  her  wake,  she  was  speeding 
towards  him  against  a  background  of  gaudy  sky,  the 
line  of  smoke  from  her  stack  gilded  and  whirling  astern, 
the  water  spuming  at  her  stem,  her  long  body  glistening 
and  white,  like  a  line  of  coherent  foam. 

One  look  through  his  glass  and  the  light-ship's  master 
laughed  aloud.  Recognition  slackened  his  facial  mus- 
cles. Like  an  old  hermit  crab  suddenly  aware  that  the 
world  contains  a  thing  or  two  of  interest  besides  the  in- 

39 


The  Triumph    off   Life 

tenor  of  his  shell,  he  looked  and  looked  with  growing 
satisfaction.  There  was  no  mistaking  this  wild  rake. 
The  prodigal  had  returned.  On  came  the  yacht,  all 
roystering  gayety,  out  of  the  sunset.  Small  need  to 
read  her  name;  the  light-ship's  master  did  not  once  di- 
rect his  glass  to  it.  He  only  shifted  his  quid  from  one 
cheek  to  the  other,  his  balance  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  and  exclaimed  in  a  husky  voice,  eloquent  of 
gratification,  "The  Jamboree  !" 

On  came  the  racy  yacht  still  nearer,  her  appearance 
of  speed,  devilry,  and  sea  -  worth  growing  apparent  in 
every  line. 

On  she  came,  but  now  slower. 

In  the  stern  a  man  of  large  frame  lay  sprawled  on  a 
wicker  sofa.  Ezra  smiled  indulgently.  It  was  the  owner. 

In  the  bow  suddenly  appeared  another  figure — youth- 
ful, free.  Out  to  the  bowsprit  it  sprang  eagerly.  Ezra 
chuckled  with  delight.  He  saw  the  young  man's  right 
arm  wave  high.  This  was  enough  —  this  wave,  the 
touch  of  motion,  the  old  familiar  greeting  between  these 
two.  No  words.  Ezra  replied  with  a  short,  upward 
thrust  of  the  forearm,  not  so  much  a  wave  as  a  kind  of 
terse  gesture  that  corresponded  to  "Halloa!"  in  words. 
His  face  did  more  than  relax;  it  softened.  The  crab 
had  cast  its  shell. 

By  now,  as  the  sun  sank  away  behind  the  low  shore- 
line and  colors  softened  into  tints,  the  Jamboree  faded  to 
a  more  subdued  harmony  with  the  gloaming.  Her  speed 
reduced  to  an  almost  imperceptible  motion,  she  glided 
forward  through  the  haze,  as  though  borne  homeward 
not  so  much  by  interior  mechanism  as  by  some  mystic 
influence  of  the  figure  in  her  bows. 

On  the  bowsprit  stood  the  young  man,  head  thrown 
back,  hair  blowing.  With  a  hand  aloft  on  the  stay  he 
maintained  a  poise,  the  ethereal  ongo  of  which  sug- 
gested some  ancient  figure-head  of  Mercury. 

40 


The   Return    of  the  "Jamboree" 

Only  when  these  familiar  outlines  were  at  last  dis- 
solved in  the  shore's  long  shadows  at  a  distant  an- 
chorage, Ezra  withdrew  his  gaze.  Looking  in  at  his 
cabin  window,  he  accosted  the  mate  laconically.  "I'm 
goin'  ashore.  He's  come  home. " 

"Who?" 

"Enoch  Lloyd." 


II 

Figures    on    the    Shore 

A  FIGURE  stood  on  the  shore  alone.  It  was  the 
waiting  figure  of  Slocum,  knotted  and  gnarled  like 
an  old  tree,  so  cragged,  in  fact,  that  even  the  rocks 
about  it,  jutting  up  in  grotesque  outline,  seemed  scarce- 
ly more  bleak  or  drear.  But  as  the  sun  sank  slowly  and 
the  edges  of  all  things  lost  their  harshness,  even  the  soli- 
tary watcher  softened  more  into  keeping  with  the  dusk. 

It  was  the  intermediate  hour.  From  far  away  in  the 
town  of  Bristol  came  sounds  that  announced  cessation 
of  labor  or  change  of  hands.  The  reverberating  drone 
of  the  boat-shop's  bell,  the  shrill  whistle  of  distant  fac- 
tories, the  sonorous  strokes  of  a  church-clock,  all  these 
in  vague  medley  over  hill  and  dale,  then  at  last — no 
sound. 

Slocum  waited  motionless.  The  skiff  in  which  he  had 
rowed  hither  from  the  far-off  light-ship  lay  nosing  the 
shore.  In  one  hand  he  held  its  long  painter,  in  the  other 
a  bunch  of  keys.  Thus  he  waited,  for  all  the  world  like 
an  old  dog,  his  eyes,  under  wire  brows,  watching  the 
yacht  at  anchor.  Others  might  have  rowed  out  to  her, 
but  Ezra  was  molluscan  still.  Presently  he  heard  a 
step  on  the  grassy  bank  behind  him,  yet  paid  no  heed 
whatever  till  a  voice  inquiringly  addressed  him. 

"What  boat  is  that?" 

Slocum  turned  and  looked  up  without  reply.  A 
short,  oldish  man,  leaning  lightly  on  a  polished  cane, 
was  genially  inspecting  the  Jamboree.  Before,  however, 

42 


Figures   on   the   Shore 

Ezra's  critical  mind  had  reverted  to  the  question,  the 
stranger  unconcernedly  started  to  resume  his  stroll. 

"Hey!"  called  Slocum. 

The  little  old  gentleman  stopped  with  an  air  of  sur- 
prise. "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said;  "is  there  any- 
thing I  can — " 

"Wasn't  you  askin'  about  the  yacht?" 

The  stranger  looked  doubtfully  out  to  her,  raised  his 
stick  and  pointed  to  the  white  hull  questioningly. 
"That  boat?" 

"  'Course  that  boat." 

"Perhaps  I  was — yes,  quite  possibly." 

"Wai,  who  d'  ye  think 's  aboard?" 

"  I  really  can't  imagine." 

"Huh;  it's  Enoch  Lloyd!" 

"Enoch  Lloyd!"  (This  in  a  voice  far  less  absent- 
minded.) 

"Yas.     Mebbe  you  know  the  boy." 

"The  boy!  Oh  yes,  yes;  so  I  do;  at  least,  in  a  way. 
Does  he  live  here?" 

"In  a  way,"  replied  Slocum,  dryly. 

"May  I  ask  where?" 

"Yonder."  Slocum  jerked  a  thumb  over  his  shoul- 
der, indicating  a  small  cottage,  or  cabin,  just  visible 
through  an  opening  in  the  spring  leafage.  "Calls  it  his 
camp.  Here's  the  keys." 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  old  gentleman,  "quite  a  hermit- 
age. "  Mr.  Lloyd  comes,  I  believe,  from  a  long  cruise." 

"Yas,  Chiny,  Injer,  and ev'rywhar,  with  Guy  O'Brien, 
the  billionaire.  That  yacht's  the  Jamboree." 

"Jamboree  /" 

"Yas;  boun'  for  Noo  York." 

"Jamboree!"  repeated  the  stranger.  "What  an  out- 
rageous name!" 

"Irish,"  observed  Ezra;  "signifyin'  spree,  bender, 
bat." 

43 


The  Triumph    of    Life 

But  the  little  old  gentleman  had  already  strolled 
away. 

Slocum  watched  his  receding  figure.  "Huh!"  he  ex- 
claimed; "kinder  wifty!"  then  fell  again  to  his  intent 
waiting. 

Slowly  the  stranger  rambled  along  the  grassy  super- 
margin  of  the  shore.  "Enoch  Lloyd,"  he  repeated  to 
himself.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  that  man,  and  yet — " 
This  thought,  evidently  regretful,  was  suddenly  dis- 
pelled. He  had  come  unexpectedly  on  a  sight  that  re- 
stored the  natural  contentment  to  his  face.  Below  him, 
on  a  large,  flat  rock,  reclined  a  young  girl,  her  figure 
softly  visible  in  the  gloaming.  On  the  rock  beside  her 
lay  an  open  book,  but,  with  her  cheek  resting  on  one 
hand,  she  was  looking  off  dreamily  across  the  water. 
Her  hair,  hatless  and  brown-gold,  was  stirred  slightly  by 
the  breeze.  Her  face  he  could  not  see,  yet  knew  it  well. 
Now  bronzed  by  her  few  weeks  in  the  country,  it  was 
the  face  of  a  young  girl  not  only  spiritually  but  also 
physically  in  perfect  health.  It  was,  indeed,  this  that 
first  impressed  all  those  who  met  her — this  health  in  body 
and  soul,  this  health  in  no  way  suggesting  too  much  of 
the  earthy,  but  only  the  earth  in  its  springtime  glory, 
its  dawn,  its  newness — this  wonderful,  entire  health! 
To-day  she  wore  a  linen  dress  of  russet  brown,  which, 
surmounted  by  the  hazel  tinge  of  her  hair,  was  but 
vaguely  defined  against  the  long,  gray  sweep  of  the 
rocky  shore.  In  bright  sunlight,  dressed  thus,  and  with 
her  hair  revealed,  she  had  often  seemed  to  him,  her 
father,  a  figure  woven  of  the  rays;  but  now  it  was  the 
afterglow  she  best  expressed,  a  fabric  of  memory. 

For  a  moment  his  mind  went  back  to  the  mother  who 
had  borne  her;  then,  as  if  to  dispel  the  haunting  lack, 
he  stepped  forward  and  spoke  cheerfully.  "Well,  Ma- 
rion, is  it  the  same  book  all  over  again?" 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  still  apparently 

44 


Figures   on  the   Shore 

under  a  spell.  "Yes;  The  Greatest  Good,  by  Enoch 
Lloyd."  He  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  dreamy. 
"Father,"  she  said,  "I  don't  believe  that  in  all  your 
forty  years  as  publisher  you  have  ever  issued  a  more 
absorbing  book.  Some  of  the  things  he  says  I  shall 
never  forget.  This,  for  instance,"  and  she  repeated  the 
passage  aloud:  "'The  darkness  of  death  is  a  gracious 
mystery;  perhaps  it  is  even  the  shadow  of  God.'" 

She  stood  up.  "Oh,  how  I  wish  the  author  were  here! 
I  should  so  love  to  meet  and  know  him!" 

"  He  is — "  It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  father's  tongue  to 
say  "here  now,"  when  a  happier  impulse  restrained 
him.  He  would  grant  her  wish,  but  later,  in  the 
way  of  a  surprise.  Stephen  Lee  was  a  lover  of  mild 
pleasantries.  "He  is,"  repeated  that  kindly  gentle- 
man— then  he  paused  again  while  Marion,  all  eagerness 
to  hear  of  the  author,  stepped  lightly  up  to  the  bank 
— "a  great  traveller." 

Pouting,  she  took  his  hand  and  pretended  to  slap  it. 
"What  a  disappointment!  You  raised  my  hopes." 

"  I  trust,"  he  observed,  with  an  old-fashioned  for- 
mality of  speech,  "they  may  never  be  more  seriously 
dashed." 

The  slap  was  now  followed  by  a  gentle  pressure.  She 
looked  across  the  water.  "What  yacht  is  that?  It's  a 
pity  I  haven't  the  Ariel  here.  We  might  sail  over  and 
look  at  her,  and  go  home  that  way." 

"Never  content  on  land,  my  water-witch?"  He  put 
an  arm  about  her.  "Come,  it's  late." 

Striking  inland  towards  a  distant  country  road,  they 
rambled  on  like  youthful  brother  and  sister,  hand  in 
hand  through  the  pastures.  Here  and  there  cattle  were 
waiting  at  the  gates  they  passed,  and  once  on  the  way  a 
mare  and  her  foal  trotted  timidly  after  them.  The  day 
was  long  in  parting.  Still,  with  luminous  gaze  it  looked 
back  from  the  west  regretfully  at  field  and  flower.  And 

45 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

some  of  the  flowers  seemed  to  live  for  a  moment  in  that 
farewell,  then  bowed  as  if  to  a  destiny  and  closed  their 
petals. 

Marion  carefully  threaded  her  way  in  and  out  be- 
tween them.  There  might  be  such  a  thing,  she  thought, 
as  cruelty  to  flowers. 

Trifles,  however,  were  soon  forgotten.  The  hour  ex- 
pressed transition,  and  Marion  felt  curiously  impatient 
of  any  change.  Usually  each  message  of  the  hours  had 
been  more  welcome  than  the  last.  Noon  had  ever 
brought  that  which  dawn  could  only  promise;  evening 
that  which  noon  could  not  define;  night  a  deeper  mys- 
tery than  evening.  Always  the  present  had  been  best — 
always,  until  now.  But  now  in  this  hour  of  twilight — 
this  interlude  —  she  felt  an  unaccountable  disquiet. 
Like  the  flowers,  she  looked  westward  regretfully,  as 
though  wishing  that  the  sun  had  stayed.  No  longer 
could  her  mood  contentedly  relinquish  the  open-hearted 
candor  and  liberty  of  day.  A  daughter  of  Nature, 
truly  sylvan,  loving  the  motherly  old  earth  and  loving 
the  fatherly  old  water;  loving  the  shore  that  joined  as 
with  a  bond  these  two  elemental  parents,  and  loving 
with  a  still  deeper  passion  the  flame  above,  whose  rays 
set  seal  to  the  union,  was  she  not,  after  all,  a  child  of 
the  open  daytime  —  a  daughter  of  the  sun?  She  felt 
perplexed  —  restless.  Of  late,  her  primeval  simplicity 
had  seemed  to  be  ebbing  faster  and  faster  every  evening 
with  the  light.  The  shadows  when  they  lengthened 
appeared  to  be  stealthily  reaching  out,  as  though  bent 
on  touching  her  at  last. 

"Do  you  think  Enoch  Lloyd  is  young  or  old?"  Her 
question  broke  a  long  silence. 

Her  father,  surprised  by  the  tone,  looked  up  inquir- 
ingly. But  Marion's  face  was  for  once  averted.  "I 
have  excellent  reasons  for  believing,"  announced  Mr. 
Lee,  "that  he  is  very  young  indeed." 

46 


Figures   on   the   Shore 

She  stopped  short  and  looked  up  at  him  with  wide 
eyes,  all  interest.  "Are  you  judging  only  by  his  book?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  have  heard  " — her  voice  fell  to  a  whisper 
— "something  actual  about  him?" 

The  little  old  gentleman  mysteriously  compressed  his 
lips  and  nodded. 

Marion  looked  down  at  the  grassy  carpet  of  the  mead- 
ow. A  diminutive  daisy  was  peeping  up  at  her. 
Stooping,  she  plucked  it  and  placed  it  in  her  father's 
button-hole.  "What  have  you  heard?" 

He  smiled  indulgently.     "Wait." 

The  smile  spread  to  her  eyes  and  lighted  their  deeper 
lights — spread  and  deepened,  coloring  her  cheeks  rose- 
red  up  even  to  the  temples  and  nimbus  of  tawny  hair. 
Youth  had  all  but  divined  youth's  close  proximity. 
"You  best  of  fathers!"  Then  a  sudden  wildness  of  im- 
pulse seemed  to  possess  her.  Running  here  and  there, 
from  flower  to  flower,  she  stooped  and  plucked  them 
on  every  side.  Meanwhile  her  father  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  field,  scarcely  knowing  whether  to  beam  or 
frown  on  so  telltale  an  abandonment  to  delight.  Hither 
and  thither  she  moved  with  swift  but  smooth  restless- 
ness, her  tall  and  slightly  rounded  figure  as  graceful  in 
contour  as  in  motion.  Behind  her  the  distant  woods 
were  a  shadowy  background  against  which  she  moved, 
scanning  the  slope  of  grass,  wild  rose,  and  bayberry 
bushes  for  its  most  secluded  treasures.  In  the  dusk  she 
alone  was  vivid — an  almost  classic  figure,  her  father 
thought;  a  figure  suggesting  a  song  of  the  old  Ionian 
shore.  Thus,  perhaps,  was  the  Perfect  Human  once 
existent.  In  her  lay  the  beauty  of  the  utterable — 
mythic,  Arcadian  perfection — the  beauty,  innocence, 
nobility,  and  gladness  of  entire  health.  Never  for  one 
day  had  she  been  ill,  and  her  mother  had  died  long  be- 
fore she  was  old  enough  to  comprehend  and  sorrow. 

47 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

When  at  last  she  returned  to  her  father  her  skirt  was 
gathered  up  in  front,  revealing  a  petticoat  and  slender 
ankles.  In  the  hollow  of  the  skirt  lay  a  profuse  mass  of 
fragrant  wild  flowers.  Wild  roses  were  there,  and  vio- 
lets; anemones,  buttercups,  daisies.  "  Look,"  she  panted 
— "the  roses!" 

He  took  her  hand  and  surveyed  the  ringers  with  a 
quaintly  troubled  expression.  "  You  should  look,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  a  drop  of  crimson  blood;  "the  roses 
are  not  all  petals." 

She  pouted.  His  face,  for  the  first  time  in  her  mem- 
ory, suggested  those  lengthening  shadows  of  the  after- 
noon. "Never  mind,"  she  said,  impulsively  clasping 
the  whole  bundle  of  nosegays  to  her  breast.  "Oh,  how 
I  love  them  all!" 

For  once  he  failed  to  respond,  though  a  love  of 
flowers  was  his  as  well. 

"They  seem  more  beautiful" — burying  her  face  in  the 
mass  to  inhale  its  fragrance — "more  beautiful  this  year 
than  ever." 

He  nodded  a  little  sadly  and  walked  on  beside  her. 
This  book  by  Enoch  Lloyd,  with  its  high  imaginative 
strain  of  glowing  ideals  and  youthful  bravery,  seemed 
to  have  worked  as  though  with  magic  upon  Marion. 
The  little  old  gentleman,  having  loved  in  his  life,  was 
quick  to  read  the  earliest  signs  of  a  mystical  influence. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  two  strolled  homeward. 

It  was  a  peculiar  trait  of  Mr.  Stephen  Lee  (call  it 
which  you  will,  humility  or  negligence)  that  he  never 
considered  himself  important  enough  to  be  an  instru- 
ment of  destiny.  Nor  yet  that  he  could,  except  by  gen- 
tle advice  and  the  influence  of  a  benign  existence,  af- 
fect in  any  way  the  affairs  of  his  fellow-men.  Even  in 
bringing  up  his  daughter,  self-effacement  had  prevailed. 
Hence  to-night,  as  usual,  considering  her  pleasure  para- 
mount and  his  own  position  unworthy  of  assertion,  he 

48 


Figures   on   the   Shore 

wrote  a  letter  which  possibly  should  never  have  been 
sent. 

Meanwhile  another  letter,  quite  different  in  terms,  was 
being  written  by  candle-light  behind  the  locked  door 
of  Marion's  bedroom.  This,  though  in  one  sense  utterly 
harmless,  was,  in  another,  far  more  dangerous  than  the 
first — harmless  because  never  to  be  posted,  dangerous 
because  written  at  all.  To  indite  a  missive  and  never 
send  it,  this  is  the  boldness  of  fledgling  love,  the  first 
adventurous  flutter  of  his  wings.  In  fancy,  of  course, 
the  message  is  signed,  sealed,  and  forthwith  posted;  even 
it  is  read;  almost  it  is  answered — this  first  sweet  letter 
that  never  goes! 

Marion  wrote  quickly,  but  with  great  reserve ;  the  pre- 
tence was  so  real,  her  imagination  so  delicately  potent. 

"  DEAR  ENOCH  LLOYD, — Are  you  never  coming  home?  I 
know  America  is  your  home ;  its  destiny  and  youth  breathe 
deep  through  every  page  you  have  written.  Arte  you  com- 
ing, and  if  so — when? 

"Tell  me  this  and  another  thing — your  age.  I  see  you 
in  every  way;  you  have  a  thousand  faces.  Which  face  is 
yours,  I  long  to  know — merely  as  a  matter  of  curiosity. 

"  I  think  you  are  coming  soon,  and  I  have  a  feeling  that 
we  are  to  know  each  other — slightly. 

"Am  I  right?    Please  answer  soon.         MARION  LEE." 

How  curiously,  even  in  this  imaginary  epistle,  her  pride 
would  out.  Notice,  for  instance,  the  guarded  phrase, 
"merely  as  a  matter  of  curiosity. "  And  her  eloquence 
of  reserve  in  that  one  word  "slightly."  What  naive  and 
childlike  fancy,  too,  in  the  final  demand  for  answer! 

Blowing  out  the  candle,  she  posted  the  billet  beneath 
her  pillow. 

Marion  had  been  so  eager  to  write  to  the  book's 
author  that  the  book  itself,  forgotten  still,  lay  open  on 
the  shore. 

4  49 


Ill 

The   Alighting   of   the   Angel 

EZRA  SLOCUM,  still  waiting  at  the  cove,  finally 
shifted  his  balance.  With  him  the  motion  meant 
something.  It  punctuated  his  inactive  life. 

The  yacht's  dingy  at  last  was  coming  to  the  shore. 
With  methodical  slowness  the  light-ship's  master  made 
fast  his  skiff's  painter  to  a  rock.  Next,  as  the  darkness 
was  deepening,  he  lighted  a  lantern  he  had  brought,  and 
then,  unprecedentedly  impulsive,  crossed  the  water's 
edge,  even  up  to  his  knees. 

A  long  "Halloa!"  came  shoreward  from  the  dingy. 
Ezra  answered  it  with  his  laconic  forearm.  That  gest- 
ure, as  a  rule,  was  his  only  medium  of  expression.  For 
him  on  his  interminable  voyage  at  anchor — his  desolate 
vigil  while  he  watched  over  this  by-path  of  the  sea,  yet 
never  followed  it  —  what  intercourse  with  his  fellow- 
men?  Come  they  might  and  go  they  might  forever,  that 
strip  of  water  lay  always  between  their  channel  and  his 
shoal.  Only  the  upraised  arm  now  and  then,  only  a 
laugh,  a  shout,  only  these  for  friendly  converse — these, 
and  perhaps,  on  occasion,  a  brandished  fist,  to  express  the 
enmity  of  years. 

"Halloa,  Ezra!" 

"H'loa,  Enoch!" 

In  another  moment  Slocum  had  laid  hold  on  the 
dingy's  bow.  There  were  two  in  the  boat — a  yacht's 
bo's'n  and  a  young  man.  The  latter  sprang  lightly 
ashore. 

50 


The   Alighting   of  the   Angel 

"Ez!"  he  cried,  grasping  the  horny  hand  in  both  of 
his  own.  "  You  old  cuttle-fish,  how  goes  it?" 

Slocum's  lips  puckered.  With  the  eloquence  of  la- 
conics he  said  only,  "H'loa,  Enoch  —  boy."  Slowly 
he  raised  his  lantern  to  his  favorite's  face,  inspecting 
critically  the  blue  eyes  and  their  old,  familiar  smile, 
which  alone  of  all  things  in  the  world  could  warm  the 
cockles  of  his  heart.  "  Same's  ever,"  at  last  he  said,  with 
satisfaction,  then  glanced  at  the  dingy,  already  return- 
ing to  the  yacht.  "  Whar's  your  frien's?" 

"  Coming  later.     I  couldn't  wait." 

"  'Course  you  couldn't.  How  long  is  it?  'Most  a 
year?" 

Lloyd  nodded.  "Look  here,  is  there  any  food  in 
camp?  I've  asked  them  to  join  me  for  a  farewell  bite." 

Slocum  chuckled.  "I  thought  's  how  you'd  be 
hungry."  He  pointed  to  his  skiff.  "Cast  your  eye  on 
thet."  In  a  basket  on  the  seat  a  large  bluefish  shim- 
mered like  silver  under  the  lantern.  "Sure's  you're 
livin',  he  fastened  on  a  drop-line.  Caught  him  this 
mornin'.  Guess  he  come  in  knowin'  you'd  be  here. 
Don't  get  'em  often  now." 

"Good!     How's  the  shanty?" 

"Right  enough.  There's  a  few  stores  I  put  agin 
your  comin' — meal  and  sech  things — 'nough  for  a 
dinner,  I  guess." 

Lloyd  took  the  bunch  of  keys  and  the  lantern  and 
led  the  way,  light-hearted  as  a  boy,  humming  and 
whistling  as  he  went.  Slocum,  bearing  the  fish,  stumped 
after  him  along  the  shore. 

They  were  a  queerly  assorted  couple;  one  airy,  grace- 
ful, buoyant  with  the  pleasure  of  home-coming,  the  other 
faithfully  limping  in  his  wake. 

"Same's  ever,"  repeated  Slocum  to  himself;  "jest  the 
same." 

Lloyd  was,  in  fact,  little  changed;  somewhat  more 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

bronzed,  perhaps,  and  rugged,  but  still  the  free,  care- 
less, irresponsible-looking  boy  of  a  year  before. 

On  over  the  rocks  he  went,  forgetting  with  youthful 
thoughtlessness  the  light-ship's  master  toiling  far  behind. 
Yet  they  had  been  close  friends,  these  two,  for  years.  In 
Lloyd's  early  childhood,  what  delight  had  equalled  that 
of  rowing  out  and  clambering  up  the  light-ship's  side? 
It  had  seemed  like  mounting  to  an  enchanted  world. 
Those  were  the  days  after  his  mother's  death,  when  his 
father,  taciturn  with  grief,  had  sought  this  shelter  from 
the  world.  Then  suddenly  the  father,  too,  was  gone; 
and  Lloyd,  under  the  indifferent  surveillance  of  a  distant 
relative,  had  frequently  neglected  school  in  favor  of  the 
bay  and  shore.  In  those  days  the  great  light-ship  had 
seemed  as  big  and  unattainable  as  the  moon,  its  keeper 
a  person  to  worship  with  wondering  awe.  What  a 
pinnacle  of  happiness,  therefore,  when  on  one  of  his 
visits  Enoch  had  been  allowed  to  aid  in  the  "tending" 
of  the  light  and  to  feel  that  he  himself  had  perhaps  a 
share  in  saving  lives!  By  the  hour  at  night  he  had  been 
wont  to  lie  out  in  the  shadows,  looking  up  at  those  long, 
fingering  rays  and  dreaming  of  the  world.  By  the  hour 
he  had  listened  to  Slocum's  yarns,  tales  of  old  voyages 
before  the  mast  from  this  once  busy  Rhode  Island  port, 
when  its  commerce  extended  to  every  corner  of  the  un- 
imagined  seas;  had  listened  and  grown  to  love  the 
accompanying  cable  rattle,  the  stir  of  the  tide  against 
the  gaunt,  black  hull,  the  tolling  bell  on  foggy  nights, 
and  all  those  thousand  whispers  of  mystery  untold. 
But  later  another  light  had  claimed  Lloyd's  time — 
another  light  and  other  mysteries — the  light  of  his  own 
mind,  the  mysteries  of  existence.  Soon  college  was 
commanding  his  life,  and  in  the  summers  a  love  of 
roaming.  Yet  often  and  often,  as  now  when  college 
was  a  year  behind  him,  a  certain  homing  instinct 
would  draw  him  back  to  this  quiet  corner  of  Nar- 

52 


The   Alighting    of  the   Angel 

ragansett  Bay,  with  its  peaceful  shore  and  elemental 
natures. 

On  over  the  rocks  Lloyd  went  to-night,  until  at  the 
verge  of  a  copse  of  cedars  in  which  his  cabin  stood  he 
paused  and  glanced  up  and  down,  at  everything  and 
nothing,  as  though  with  a  creature  perception  of  land- 
marks lost  on  human  eyes — trees,  grass,  shadows.  Here 
were  meanings,  traits  of  the  grove,  tokens  of  a  personal 
friend  regained.  Then — into  the  woods,  and  Slocum  saw 
his  lantern,  which  like  a  fire-fly  had  led  the  way,  vanish 
in  the  dark. 

When  at  last  the  light-ship's  master  came  to  the  cot- 
tage, he  stopped  on  the  threshold  amazed. 

There  in  an  arm-chair  sat  Enoch  before  a  fire  of  blaz- 
ing logs,  the  lantern  on  the  floor,  his  legs  crossed  and 
feet  up  near  the  mantel  -  shelf,  his  head  thrown  back, 
a  brier-root  pipe  between  his  teeth,  and  clouds  of  smoke 
whirling  to  the  rafters.  Judging  by  the  sublime  com- 
fort of  his  appearance,  he  might  have  been  at  home  for 
years. 

But  Slocum  entered  uneasily,  and,  picking  up  the 
lantern,  peered  through  the  tobacco  smoke.  "Suthin' 
wrong?"  he  said. 

Lloyd's  eyes  opened  lazily  and  gazed  with  affection 
at  the  raftered  ceiling.  "Sheer  enjoyment,  Ezra.  For 
nearly  a  year  I've  been  anticipating  this  identical 
position." 


IV 

The    Toast   that   Failed 

S LOCUM 'S  leathery  face  seemed  positively  to  crackle 
with  satisfaction.  "Mebbe,"  he  remarked,  dryly 
eager,  "you  won't  be  so  restless  -  like  agin.  I'll  fetch 
more  fire- wood.  Comin'?" 

Lloyd  indolently  shook  his  head.  "Too  comfortable. 
I'll  be  out  soon.  Get  drift-wood  if  you  can." 

Slocum  lighted  a  candle  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and,  pick- 
ing up  his  lantern,  started  to  leave.  As  he  reached  the 
doorway  Enoch  stopped  him.  "Look  here,  Ezra;  have 
you  happened  to  hear"  —  he  hesitated,  a  certain  em- 
barrassment at  odds  with  the  eagerness  of  his  voice 
— "anything  about —  But  no,  of  course  you  wouldn't 
know." 

"Know  what?" 

"  Never  mind.     I'll  be  out  in  a  moment." 

Slocum  held  the  light  up.     "Any  thin'  troublin'  you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  hungry,"  was  the  evasive  answer — "hun- 
gry as  a  bear." 

But  Slocum,  as  he  went  out,  shook  his  head. 

There  was,  however,  a  certain  truth  in  this  talk  of 
hunger — hunger  in  an  under  sense.  Lloyd  was  fam- 
ished for  news  of  a  book  the  manuscript  of  which  he  had 
sent  eight  or  nine  months  ago  from  Port  Said  to  Stephen 
Lee  and  Company,  Publishers,  New  York.  After  the 
contracts  and  proofs  exchanged  by  mail  there  had  been 
but  a  single  advice.  This  had  come  about  three  months 
ago  to  Gibraltar,  announcing  the  publication  of  The 

54 


The   Toast  that   Failed 

Greatest  Good.  That  was  all.  And  yet,  of  course,  he 
could  not  have  expected  more ;  correspondence  is  so  un- 
certain when  one  is  cruising  off  the  beaten  track.  Now 
that  the  first  keen  pleasure  of  his  return  was  more  sub- 
dued, Lloyd's  impatience  resumed  sway.  He  asked  him- 
self why  he  had  not  gone  on  at  once  to  New  York,  as 
O'Brien,  the  yacht's  owner,  had  suggested,  instead  of 
landing  here.  Was  it  because  he  really  feared  to  be  told 
of  the  book's  fate?  Compressing  his  lips,  he  answered, 
No.  Could  there  be  any  question  ?  The  work  must  suc- 
ceed. He  had  never  known  failure. 

His  face,  lighted  waveringly  by  the  fire,  was  the  very 
placard  of  a  temperament.  The  hair,  bronze-brown  in 
color,  and  parted  far  over  one  temple,  swept  across  a 
lofty  brow.  The  eyes,  a  mystical  Celtic  blue,  shone  elo- 
quent with  deep  but  transient  lights.  On  the  forehead 
was  imagination,  ideality;  in  the  eyes,  high  dreams.  So 
far,  so  good;  but  below  the  eyes  another  story.  The 
nose,  irregular  and  crudely  modelled,  surmounted  a 
mouth  not  wide,  yet  mobile,  sensitive,  and  full.  Be- 
neath this  the  ruggedness  of  the  chin,  though  accentu- 
ated by  a  central  cleft,  suggested  a  force  not  so  much  of 
character  as  of  creature  instincts  and  free  will.  Yet 
evidently  the  glamour  of  dreaming  still  held  sway. 
When  even  the  visionary  lights  were  out  there  shone  in 
his  eyes,  with  the  tranquil  limpidity  of  a  forest  animal's, 
a  barbarous  love  of  being  alive. 

In  short,  Lloyd's  was  one  of  the  many  faces  in  which 
above  is  heaven  and  the  earth  beneath — but  the  earth 
is  still  an  Arcady.  With  something  of  this  primordial 
godhood  and  manhood  (blended  always,  but  only  once 
perfectly  balanced  since  the  Fall)  perhaps  the  counte- 
nance of  Adam  was  imbued  while  still  the  sky  and  the 
garden  were  the  only  rivals  in  his  eyes.  Similarly, 
Lloyd's  face  was  a  page  of  axioms.  It  is,  however,  the 
part  of  self-evident  truths  to  preface  infinitudes.  On 

55 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

them  rest  all  the  anomalies.  To  them  in  the  end  the 
jaded  philosopher  harks  back,  clutching  at  anything  that 
is  obvious.  After  being  lost  in  the  infinity  of  problems, 
what  a  satisfaction  in  turning  again  to  that  clear  first 
page  of  the  primary  scholar,  and  idling  once  more  over 
those  few  simple,  untroubling  axioms  of  childhood! 
Then  to  the  question,  "What  is  life?"  comes  answer, 
"Life  is  life";  and  the  world  for  a  spell  resembles  Eden. 
Thus  is  Paradise  regained.  Lloyd  had  a  way  of  so  re- 
gaining it  at  will.  Thanks  to  a  dangerous  yet  pleasant 
knack  of  his  nature,  he  could,  when  wonder  baffled  him, 
fall  back  again  on  creature  happiness.  For  this  he  pos- 
sessed, as  if  by  birthright,  a  pure,  untrammelled  love. 
His  was  indeed  "the  very  spirit  of  out-of-doors."  What 
magnetism!  What  buoyant  humor!  What  childlike 
clarity  of  soul !  This  was  a  personality  that  men  by  in- 
dulgence and  blind  affection  might  prodigally  spoil. 
The  sheer  liberty  of  it  could  not  but  evoke  a  lavish,  un- 
reasoning fondness  in  workaday  hearts.  At  college  they 
had  appropriately  called  him  "Angel,"  not  with  the 
slightest  ironical  hint  of  prudery,  but  only  because  of  his 
innate  unworldliness  and  ingenuous  blue  eyes.  Once  in 
Lloyd's  early  boyhood  a  gray-haired  minister  of  the 
old  school  had  stopped  to  look  at  him  and  ask  his  name. 
When  told,  the  clergyman  had  smiled  and  laid  a  hand 
on  the  child's  head.  "The  name  is  apt.  It  was  Enoch 
who  '  walked  with  God.'  " 

Even  now  the  observation  would  have  applied.  Never- 
theless, a  lurking  instability  in  Lloyd's  expression  sug- 
gested an  uncertain  future.  His  face  foretold  ex- 
tremes. Friends  of  his  own  age  held  high  hope  for  him ; 
older  friends  both  hope  and  fear.  As  for  himself,  the 
hope  possessed  him  dangerously.  To  him  discretion 
was  not  the  better  part  of  valor,  or  seemed,  perhaps,  no 
part  of  it  at  all.  Discretion  was  too  apt  to  signify 
cowardice,  merely  slavery — so  far. 

56 


The   Toast  that   Failed 

His  moods  were  broadly  divided  into  two  kinds — 
those  of  a  genius  and  a  child.  For  hours  absorbedly  he 
would  strive,  with  glowing  but  groundless  theories,  to 
shape  the  millennium  in  his  mind.  Nothing  was  better, 
thought  he,  than  to  loaf  and  invite  one's  soul.  Whither 
tended  humanity?  he  dared  to  ask  himself,  who  knew 
little  or  nothing  of  the  world.  Vainly,  but  with  a  strange, 
futuritial  tendency,  he  would  project  his  dreams  for- 
ward into  the  dim  obscurity  of  unimagined  epochs;  on 
and  on,  striving  to  trace  the  course  of  the  republic, 
to  determine  the  trend  of  this  democracy,  this  vast 
mortar  of  compounding  races,  its  pestle  in  the  hand  of — 
whom?  If  the  metaphor  of  the  mortar  pleased  him, 
the  metaphor  of  the  pestle  perplexed  him  to  the  core — 
that  pestle  ever  stirring,  silently,  endlessly  stirring,  the 
myriad  incompatibles  into  a  perfect  blend.  .  .  .  The 
pestle  was  held  by  whom?  By  one  giant  nature  after 
another?  No;  none  is  great  enough  for  that.  By  the 
genius  of  democracy  —  the  people  corporate  and  indi- 
vidual— humanity  itself ?  Perhaps!  A  thousand  times 
he  said  "perhaps,"  and  yet  he  doubted  if  even  hu- 
manity's hand  could  wield  the  pestle  of  its  own  life. 
Was  there  not  a  Chemist  greater  still? 

Thus  on  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory  he  stood 
curious  and  confused.  This  was  the  mood  of  the  gen- 
ius in  him ;  oftener  came  the  mood  of  the  child.  In  an 
instant  he  was  capable  of  becoming  all  gayety,  even 
folly,  with  a  sort  of  mental  capering  and  unrestraint. 
Did  the  philosopher's  stone  seem  more  than  ever  unob- 
tainable, on  in  a  moment  with  the  cap  and  bells! 

So  to-night,  in  swift  transition,  he  was  running  all  the 
gamut  of  his  moods.  The  touch  of  the  familiar  shore 
had  seemed  to  electrify  his  step;  the  feel  of  this  arm- 
chair brought  a  quieter  emotion. 

At  last  he  looked  about  the  room,  dwelling  with  a 
long  gaze  on  the  rough-hewn  table  that  served  for  meals 

57 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

and  study,  the  worn  floor,  the  brick  chimney  -  place, 
lacking  mortar;  the  narrow,  rickety  stairs,  the  shelves 
of  well-thumbed  books,  and,  lastly,  through  his  window 
out  to  the  great  ship's  light  he  knew  so  well.  For 
him  these  objects  held  an  inexpressible  charm.  No 
matter  how  commonplace  they  might  be,  he  had  a  cer- 
tain animal  affection  for  familiar  things  —  liked  the 
hearth-rug  with  a  dog's  liking;  the  bare  yet  comfortable 
room  as  a  horse  might  love  its  stall.  Thus  these;  but 
for  the  natural  things  of  earth  a  widely  different  fond- 
ness. For  them  no  browsing  friendship,  no  mere  con- 
tent at  thought  of  the  wooded  shore,  the  rocks,  the 
stretches  of  water,  the  stars,  the  evening  air.  Nor  was 
there  anything  depictive  in  this  other  feeling,  anything 
whatever  of  the  artist's  view.  This  was  no  aesthetic 
admiration  for  scenery,  no  flattery  for  the  mere  cos- 
tume of  Nature,  but  the  love  of  a  man  for  Nature's 
heart. 

Finally,  as  if  drawn  again  by  that  spell,  he  rose  and 
went  out  to  join  Slocum. 

It  was  before  his  return  that  two  men,  just  landed 
from  the  yacht,  entered  his  cabin.  One,  Cuthbert  Mor- 
ton by  name,  presented  a  meagre  appearance.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  pinched  face, 
lit  by  the  firelight,  suggesting  a  mentality  of  narrow 
force,  while  a  pair  of  small,  glancing  eyes,  close  together 
behind  rimless  glasses,  bespoke,  as  it  were,  a  sinewy 
mind,  a  character  composed  of  wirelike  fibres;  and  his 
skin  was  almost  translucent  on  the  brow. 

The  second  comer,  a  large,  loose-framed  fellow,  who 
unceremoniously  shoved  the  first  before  him  into  the 
room,  was  different  enough  to  seem  the  very  opposite 
of  his  friend.  Sprawling  and  oppressively  large,  with  a 
heavy  but  humorous  face  and  blunt  features,  he  bore 
appropriately  the  sobriquet  "Goliath,"  the  common  ab- 
breviation of  which  was  "  Gol." 

58 


The   Toast  that   Failed 

Morton  peered  about  the  room  in  surprise.  "  Not 
here !  Where  on  earth — ' ' 

O'Brien  seated  himself  comfortably  in  the  arm-chair. 
"  Moonshining,  I'll  bet.  Sit  down."  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  O'Brien  that  he  disliked  any  one  to  break  his 
interminable  lethargy  by  appearing  to  be  any  more 
active  than  himself. 

Cuthbert  closed  the  door  and  drew  a  chair  close  to 
his  companion.  "  Bother  it  all,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"D'  you  suppose  he's  had  bad  news?" 

The  answer,  drawling  but  brief,  suggested  crude  con- 
victions. "Hell,  no!" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  pursued  the  other,  evidently  of 
a  controversial  turn.  "The  book's  too  good — too  im- 
practical." 

O'Brien,  lighting  a  long  cigar,  blinked  at  the  fire;  then, 
emphatically:  "He  fail?  Never!" 

But  Cuthbert  rose  uneasily,  and,  going  to  the  window, 
shook  his  head.  What  if,  after  all,  the  book  had  fallen 
flat — the  work  that  had  so  vitally  absorbed  his  friend? 
What  if  it  had  come  to  ridicule — or,  even  worse,  to  sheer 
oblivion?  He  dreaded  to  consider  the  effect  of  this 
possibility.  Scenes  recurred  graphically  to  his  com- 
pact mind.  He  saw  Lloyd  writing  the  last  pages,  his 
face  alight  with  hope.  Well,  Enoch  had  never  failed. 
Seemingly,  failure  was  impossible  to  him.  Yet  wherein 
lay  this  element  of  success?  Always  unable  to  define 
Lloyd's  power,  he  lamely  termed  it  a  gift  of  words. 
Himself  a  prominent  essayist  and  critic,  he  could,  nev- 
ertheless, not  well  appreciate  the  purely  imaginative 
mind.  Mentally  he  danced  at  the  death  of  romance. 
He  was  modern  to  the  core.  By  nature  a  critic  of 
piercing  insight  who  wrote  for  the  leading  reviews,  he 
filled  the  part  of  a  moral  pathologist,  a  keen  diagnos- 
tician of  social,  political,  and  literary  wrongs.  His  opin- 
ions counted  about  as  much  as  can  those  of  any  publi- 

59 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

cist  in  so  diversified  a  democracy.  Essentially  scientific, 
he  spoke  of  religion  as  metaphysics,  of  charity  as  philan- 
thropy, of  the  moral  law  as  the  ethical  code,  of  God  as  x 
in  the  cosmic  problem.  He  was  bigotedly  broad,  intol- 
erant of  all  intolerance,  mathematical  to  the  marrow  of 
his  bones.  He  was  the  old  fanatic  in  the  new  guise — a 
devotee  of  veritism.  The  day  of  ideals,  he  said,  was 
passing;  the  day  of  ideas  had  come.  Naturally,  there- 
fore, the  wayward  mind  of  Lloyd,  with  all  its  color  of 
romance  and  contemplative  trend,  seemed  to  him  me- 
diaeval and  unworthy  of  so  advanced  an  age.  It  would 
not  conform  to  any  rote;  could  not  be  measured  with 
exactitude;  and  so  he  denied  its  efficacy.  A  thing  of 
vague  beauty  perhaps  it  was,  yet  obviously  anarch  to 
rules  of  thought  or  science  and  wholly  useless  as  a  force 
in  life.  But  occasionally,  beyond  this  easy  dismissal, 
the  genuinely  critical  and  estimative  faculty  of  Morton 
would  assert  itself.  At  these  moments  he  could  not  but 
acknowledge  a  certain  inherent  potency  in  the  work  of 
Lloyd.  Granting,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  fiction 
and  fancy  may  be  seriously  pursued,  this  was  imagina- 
tive literature  of  a  high  order.  For  the  sake  of  liber- 
ality he  must  acknowledge  Lloyd's  talent.  So,  at  least, 
he  would  have  said,  to  account  for  moments  of  un- 
guarded admiration ;  but  the  truth  of  it  was  that  some- 
where down  deep  under  the  wire  net-work  that  seem- 
ingly served  him  for  veins,  nerves,  and  tendons,  there 
existed  a  weak  spot  of  softer  stuff,  and  Lloyd,  several 
years  his  junior,  unconsciously  had  a  trick  of  touching 
it  at  random. 

Yet,  curiously  enough,  even  Goliath  could  better  ap- 
preciate Lloyd.  His  spongy  mind  contained  no  logic  to 
take  offence  at  the  idealism  of  their  friend.  Imagination, 
no  doubt,  was  a  kind  of  eccentricity,  a  species  of  mental 
wild  oats.  The  sheer  laziness  and  bigness  of  the  thing 
appealed  to  him.  Once  Morton,  definitive  always,  had 

60 


The  Toast  that   Failed 

described  Lloyd's  nature  as  "a  sort  of  epic  in  runes." 
It  was  perhaps  this  very  crudity  and  largeness,  this 
barbaric  poetry  of  Enoch's  character,  that,  queerly 
enough,  touched  in  Goliath  a  kindred  chord;  harking 
back,  possibly,  to  some  old  Celtic  ancestor  who  had  in- 
vented songs. 

Cuthbert,  hearing  a  chuckle  from  O'Brien,  turned 
jerkily.  "What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"  Oh,  nothing."  He  pointed  to  a  familiar  photograph 
of  the  assembled  members  of  their  college  fraternity 
chapter  who  were  now  looking  down  at  them  from  over 
the  book-shelves.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  and  Angel 
in  college." 

"Well,  what—?" 

"  Of  that  prize  debate  between  you." 

"Oh!"  In  Morton  the  recollection  seemed  to  in- 
spire little  amusement. 

"  What  was  it  on  ?"  pursued  Goliath,  ruthlessly.  "All 
I  can  remember  is  that  he  won." 

"Yes,  and  yet  I  had  shown  concisely — " 

"  Of  course!     You  were  always  devilish  concise." 

"  I  had  shown  logically — " 

("And  logical  as  sin!") 

" — that  Enoch's  side  was  dead  wrong.  My  argument 
was  sound  from  start  to  finish.  He  could  not  answer  my 
questions." 

("Lord,  I  hope  not!") 

"  But  up  he  stood,  and  I  saw  then  how  the  vote  would 
go.  It's  all  that  way  of  his — the  divine-afflatus  business, 
you  know." 

"The  what?" 

"Oh,  his  seraphic  face.  But  this  won't  carry  him 
through  in  writing.  He  may  have  failed." 

"Thunder,  no!" 

"  I  tell  you,"  repeated  Cuthbert,  testily, "  he  may  have 
failed!" 

61 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"S-sh!     Here  he  comes." 

Morton  turned  quickly  to  the  window.   "  No,  it's  Tom." 

For  a  moment  the  controversy  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  a  sailor  from  the  Jamboree,  a  big,  brawny, 
up-standing  seaman  of  the  kind  they  breed  on  the  coast 
of  Maine.  "It's  here,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  wave  of  his 
lantern  towards  the  doorway. 

"That's  good;  bring  it  in."  Tom  went  out,  and  re- 
turned presently  rolling  across  the  threshold  a  cask  of 
wine.  "Put  it  there  under  the  stairs  and  leave  your 
light."  Then,  after  they  were  again  alone,  "  Lord,  I  hate 
darkness!" 

"  Yes,  it  is  rather  gloomy  here — nothing  but  a  candle." 

O'Brien  kicked  at  the  logs.  "Especially  gloomy  with 
a  raven  for  company." 

Cuthbert  frowned.  "Well,  I  can't  help  thinking  how 
probable  it  seems  that  he  has  failed." 

At  this  there  came  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  door- 
way, and  Enoch,  staggering  under  an  armful  of  firewood, 
surveyed  them  amusedly,  while  Slocum,  similarly  freight- 
ed, peered  through  the  window  from  outside. 

Morton  was  nothing  daunted.  "  I'm  not  sure,"  he  per- 
sisted, presuming  as  usual  on  his  seniority,  "it  wouldn't 
in  some  ways  be  a  mighty  good  thing." 

Again  that  laugh,  as  though  at  an  arrant  absurdity, 
while  Enoch,  now  followed  by  Slocum,  threw  down  his 
burden  on  the  hearth. 

"The  crow,"  drawled  Goliath,  "has  been  cawing 
again." 

Lloyd  nodded,  and  surveyed  the  cask  under  the  stair- 
way. 

"What's—" 

"Oh,  it's  a  barrel  of  Xerez.  I  thought  you'd  be  glad 
to  have  a  souvenir  of  the  cruise,  you  know." 

"Thanks,  I  remember  it  well.  Best  in  the  world. 
But  come,  give  us  a  hand." 

62 


The   Toast   that   Failed 

And  now  they  fell  to  work,  each  assuming  the  share 
allotted  to  him  by  the  youngest  of  all,  but  the  oldest  at 
the  knack  of  camping.  Slocum  cleaned  the  large  blue- 
fish,  Enoch  stirred  a  bowlful  of  meal  and  water,  while 
Cuthbert  prepared  the  table,  and  Goliath,  with  much 
ado,  drove  a  spigot  into  the  wine-cask. 

"Anyway,"  observed  Lloyd,  "I've  solved  the  ser- 
vant problem.  I  don't  have  any.  It's  the  best  way — 
that  is,  if  you  know  how,  which  I  do.  Nice  hang-out, 
isn't  it?" 

"Fairly,"  returned  O'Brien,  who  had  never  labored  so 
diligently  before.  "But  I  prefer  a  hotel." 

Hereupon  the  others  laughed  immoderately.  It  seem- 
ed queer  to  Cuthbert  that  the  son  of  a  self-made  man 
should  be  thus  playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  an  energy 
which,  in  him,  was  dying  of  self-indulgence.  And  it 
seemed  still  more  paradoxical  that  Lloyd,  evidently  of 
a  stock  long  cultured,  should  prefer  this  barbarous  out- 
door life,  whereas  Goliath,  obviously  an  offspring  of 
Irish  peasantry,  held  the  comforts  of  civilization  above 
all  things  dear. 

"Don't  know  what  the  dickens  I'd  do,"  added 
O'Brien,  struggling  valiantly  with  bit  and  augur,  "if  the 
old  gentleman  hadn't  made  a  fortune!" 

From  others  this  remark,  hinting  of  a  present  compari- 
son, would  have  been  insufferable,  but  somehow  the  great 
good-humor  of  Goliath  excused  him  always. 

Finally  the  preparations  were  complete,  except  the 
cooking. 

"  'Night,"  said  Slocum,  abruptly.  "Light  needs  tend- 
in'." 

Lloyd  went  to  the  door  with  him  and  looked  off  at  the 
ship  that  was  called  a  home.  "Won't  you  wait  and 
have  supper?" 

"Nop;  carn't." 

"Well,  I'll  be  out  there  soon.  I've  some  work  on  a 

63 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

new  book.         I'll  come  as  I  used  to,  Ezra,  and  help  you 
'  'tend  '  light." 

"You  will?     How  soon?" 

"Oh,  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Wai,  don't  fergit."  And  before  long,  as  Lloyd  went 
about  the  room,  he  saw  the  master's  lantern,  a  dim  glim- 
mer through  the  window,  gliding  down  the  bay. 

Presently  Enoch  dipped  his  spoon  into  the  concoction 
of  Indian  meal,  and  carefully  proceeded  to  drop  a  white, 
wafer-like  splotch  on  a  frying-pan. 

"What  is  that?"  queried  Cuthbert,  as  he  sniffed  the 
savory  air.  "It  looks  like  a  poker-chip." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  O'Brien,  drawing  hungrily  near- 
er, "  this  is  a  jack-pot." 

Lloyd  made  a  gesture  of  disdain.  "  No,  it's  not  a  jack, 
it's  a  johnny — ahem! — a  johnny-cake!"  and  he  ducked 
his  head  behind  the  spoon  as  if  fearing  missiles  from 
the  audience. 

Goliath  guffawed,  while  Cuthbert,  though  assuming 
a  pained  expression,  gradually  relaxed.  The  occasional 
inanities  of  Lloyd  had  such  an  absurdly  light-hearted 
ring.  Sometimes  Morton  almost  wished  that  he  himself 
could  afford  to  be  thus  genially  idiotic. 

The  drivel,  as  he  called  it,  continued.  "I  tell  you," 
said  Enoch,  holding  up  his  spoon  between  droppings, 
with  the  air  of  a  lecturer,  "the  Rhode-Islander  is  a  born 
gourmet — also  a  gourmand.  What  with  clam-bakes, 
chowders,  bannocks,  and,  last  but  not  least,  the  sublime 
johnny-cake,  he  fills  an  exalted  rank  among  epicures. 
He  does  it  so  humbly,  too — with  so  little  assumption  of 
an  air,  so  democratic  a  simplicity!"  Lloyd  bent  over 
the  bowl  and  stirred  rapidly.  "In  some  ways  there's 
no  chef  in  all  Paris  can  equal  a  Rhode  Island  house- 
wife." (This  with  a  final  and  decisive  clip-clop  of  the 
spoon.) 

"Oh,  come  now — "  began  O'Brien. 

64 


The  Toast    that  Failed 

"S-sh!"  put  in  Cuthbert;  "these  cooks  will  have  their 
eccentricities.  He's  quite  harmless." 

"I  had  an  uncle,"  pursued  Enoch,  loftily  holding  his 
frying-pan  over  the  blaze,  "who  took  one  of  these  crisp, 
simple  -  looking  johnny-cakes  as  a  model  all  the  way 
to  Paris  in  a  box.  But,  alas!  it  could  never  be  repro- 
duced. One  night  from  the  hands  of  the  chef  appeared 
as  entremet  a  something  that  looked  like  a  cross  be- 
tween a  charlotte-russe  and  a  poached  egg.  And  what, 
think  you,  that  infamous  cook  had  the  impudence  to 
call  it?  Proudly  he  proclaimed  the  monstrosity  'Gateau 
de  Jean.'" 

At  this  there  came  a  second  burst  of  laughter  from 
Goliath,  and  Cuthbert  chirruped  like  a  sparrow. 

Lloyd  gently  turned  the  cakes  over  on  the  pan. 
"Oh,  those  French  may  be  master  impressionists  in  the 
culinary  art,  but  for  genuinely  comforting,  urbanely  sat- 
isfying concoctions,  give  me  New  England  every  time. 
You  must  eat  a  Parisian  creation  by  gas-light,  but  with  us 
the  noble  Indian  has  left  his  mark.  These  things  taste 
all  the  better  in  the  woods.  Here,  Cutty,  hold  this — so!" 

As  the  fire  had  now  died  down  to  a  deep,  glowing  bed 
of  embers,  Lloyd,  having  transferred  the  frying-pan  to 
his  scullery  maid,  laid  the  bluefish  between  the  bars  of  a 
gridiron  and  held  it  aloft  as  though  it  were  a  flag.  "  Oh, 
sovereign  fish  " — this  with  eyes  reverently  cast  upward 
— "you  reign  supreme!  There  are  those  who  vow  alle- 
giance to  the  lordly  salmon,  and  those  who  dally  with 
the  piquant  trout.  We  can  but  pity  them.  You  only 
do  we  serve."  He  thrust  the  gridiron  forward  dra- 
matically over  the  embers.  "And  you  shall  be  served 
as  befits  your  excellence,  within  three  paces  of  the  fire!" 
Hearing  a  vicious  sizzle  from  Cuthbert's  frying-pan,  he 
turned  quickly.  "Hang  it,  they'll  burn!  Turn  them 
over!  Take  them  off!  Get  a  plate,  Gol,  as  you  value 
your  appetite!" 

s  65 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

So  proceeded  the  preparation  of  that  immemorial  re- 
past, until  before  long  the  low-studded  room  was  filled 
with  so  redolent  and  savory  an  odor  that  the  very  air 
convey  ?d  a  taste. 

Goliath  and  Morton  seated  themselves,  striving  to  ap- 
pease their  impatience  by  the  consumption  of  this  in- 
tangible hors  d'oeuvre. 

Thank  Heaven,  at  last  the  fish  was  cooked!  Rushing 
to  the  table,  Enoch  flung  open  the  gridiron  and  seized  a 
fork.  "Gentlemen,"  he  began,  waving  that  implement 
with  an  oratorical  flourish  of  triumph,  "from  the  cafe's 
of  Europe  we  have  come — "  He  paused,  glancing  down 
sideways  at  Goliath,  who,  as  he  leaned  far  forward,  with 
capacious  mouth  already  opened  and  fists  clinched  upon 
knife  and  fork,  presented  a  picture  of  hunger  at  top 
pitch.  "From  the  cafe's  of  Europe — "  repeated  Enoch, 
winking  at  Cuthbert;  then  again  he  hesitated,  and  this 
time  his  face  fell.  A  keen  realization  of  contrasts 
seemed  to  rob  him  all  at  once  of  enthusiasm.  The 
speech,  begun  with  an  air,  now  petered  out  in  doleful 
accents.  "From  the  cafe's  of  Europe  we  have  come 
down  to  this!  How  odious  are  comparisons!  No  won- 
der you  prefer  hotels!"  Gazing  ruefully  at  the  fish,  he 
reclosed  the  broiler,  and  next,  as  if  under  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  scorn  for  such  humble  fare,  bore  it  quickly  to 
the  door.  "No!  I  haven't  the  effrontery  to  offer  you  so 
barbarously  cooked  a  meal.  I've  got  it!  We'll  take  a 
train  to  Newport.  .  It's  only  an  hour.  You'll  enjoy 
that  much  better.  Come!"  With  which  he  reopened 
the  gridiron  as  though  to  fling  its  unworthy  contents 
upon  the  ground. 

Rising  in  a  heavy  panic,  Goliath  strode  over  to  him 
and  seized  the  grill.  "Confound  it!  Your  eccentrici- 
ties go  too  far.  Blest  if  I — "  But  then  as  he  returned 
ravenously  to  the  table  there  came  a  shout  of  laughter 
from  the  doorway,  and  Goliath,  slow  of  wit  but  large  of 

66 


The   Toast    that   Failed 

humor,  joined  in  the  joke  against  himself  with  a  burst 
of  Homeric  mirth.  Meanwhile  Cuthbert  chirped  ap- 
preciatively and  munched  the  crispest  cake;  and  Enoch 
filled  their  glasses  at  the  barrel. 

Then — silence.  The  beau-ideal  of  a  supper  had  been 
reached.  What  better — what  half  so  good?  Verily 
even  the  immortal  first  roaster  of  pork  scarce  knew 
deeper  rapture  than  this  of  theirs.  Here  as  beverage 
was  the  long- voyaged  Xerez  wine,  with  its  nutty  tang, 
its  old-time  melody  of  flavor.  How  pleasantly  it  blend- 
ed the  edibles  within ;  how  magically  it  mellowed  friend- 
ship! 

And  the  smell  of  the  wood  embers,  and  the  smell  of  the 
cedar  grove,  delectably  permeant,  added  an  indescrib- 
able relish  to  the  meal.  Small  wonder  that  for  a  time 
inadequate  words  were  few;  small  wonder  that  at  the 
end  of  so  light  yet  Epicurean  a  supper  adequate  words 
were  many. 

Already  Goliath's  opinion  concerning  camps  and 
roughing  it  had  changed.  "Hang  it  all!  Why  did  the 
old  man  make  money?" 

Even  Cuthbert  relaxed  into  a  limited  benevolence. 
For  once  he  had  stopped  playing  intellectual  policeman 
to  his  friends.  "A  toast  to  Angel — the  success  of  his 
book!" 

"Yes!"  (This  in  the  tones  of  a  true  Philistine.) 
"  Here  goes,  and  no  heel-taps!" 

With  a  gay  gesture  of  response,  Enoch  raised  his  wine- 
glass. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  sharp  rap  on  the  door.  He 
paused.  The  knock  was  repeated.  He  set  down  his 
glass,  and,  opening  the  door,  looked  out.  A  tall,  thin 
man  automatically  thrust  forward  a  black-sleeved  arm. 
The  hand,  bony  and  long,  held  a  note.  Enoch  took  it. 
The  messenger  withdrew  into  the  darkness.  Enoch 
shut  the  door,  and,  crossing  to  the  lantern,  read  hastily: 

67 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

"DEAR  MR.  LLOYD, — While  walking  on  the  shore  to-day 
I  saw  Mr.  O'Brien's  yacht.  From  an  old  fisherman  who 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  you  I  learned  that  by  an  odd 
coincidence  we  are  to  be  near  neighbors.  I  have  just  in- 
herited from  a  brother  the  old  place  known  as  'The  Orchard,' 
situated  immediately  across  the  water  from  your  cottage. 
Will  you  dine  with  us  here  at  seven  to-morrow?  It  will 
give  us  great  pleasure  to  meet  you  personally. 

"I  trust  you  received  my  letter  forwarded  with  some 
uncertainty  to  Gibraltar.  You  cannot  regret  more  than 
I  the  failure  of  your  book.  That  both  critics  and  public 
have  left  it  so  severely  alone  seems  indeed  inexplicable. 
I  should  like  to  hold  out  some  small  encouragement  to  you 
regarding  it,  but,  alas!  in  these  days  when  all  things  move 
so  quickly,  the  book,  I  fear,  would  certainly  have  suc- 
ceeded already,  had  it  been  going  to  succeed  at  all. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"STEPHEN  LEE." 

As  Enoch  came  to  the  end  they  saw  his  face  go 
deadly  white;  he  trembled.  Then  with  unusual  pre- 
cision he  folded  the  letter.  "Invitation  to  dinner,"  he 
told  them,  lightly;  but  for  once  the  careless  voice  and 
manner  contained  an  artificial  note — a  note  which,  first 
altering  his  voice  in  that  moment  of  disappointment, 
began  to  sound  the  under  discord  of  his  life. 

He  raised  his  glass  again.  "A  different  toast.  Not 
to  the  Angel,  but" — he  smiled  strangely — "to  the  devil 
himself!  The  amusing  part  of  it  is — I  have  failed." 


V 
The   Boat   of   Dreams 

LOYD    drained  his   glass,  and,  turning  his  back   on 
the  others,  stood  silently  looking  down  at  the  fire. 

Morton's  lips  were  compressed  close;  with  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  he  tapped  nervously  on  the  table.  Goliath 
drew  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  and,  without  lighting  it, 
mouthed  the  wrong  end.  They  saw  Enoch  shrug  his 
shoulders  at  the  embers.  A  moth  flew  in  at  the  open 
doorway  and  fretted  the  candle  -  flame.  The  monoto- 
nous stir  of  the  water  expressed  their  moods.  Enoch's 
silence  forbade  comment. 

Morton  was  the  first  to  rise.  "He  spoke  to  Lloyd's 
back.  "Time  to  turn  in.  Take  care  of  yourself." 

When  Enoch  turned,  O'Brien  rose  heavily  and  clapped 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Damn  shame!"  he  ejaculated. 
"Rotten  shame!" 

Lloyd  smiled  vaguely.  "  'Night,  Gol!  'Night,  Cutty! 
Remember  me  to  the  people  in  New  York." 

He  followed  them  to  the  doorway  in  silence.  Dumbly 
taking  their  leave,  they  clambered  down  through  the 
darkness  to  the  shore,  where  O'Brien  turned  to  wave 
good-bye.  But  the  door  of  the  cabin  was  already  closed. 

Enoch  seated  himself  in  the  arm-chair.  The  fire  was 
about  dead  now,  and  the  room  seemed  chilly.  Once  or 
twice  he  shivered,  but  sat  for  an  hour  or  more  inertly, 
until  at  last,  when  a  word  began  to  shape  itself  and 
take  on  coherency,  he  rose,  went  out,  and  walked  along 
the  shore. 

69 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

Failure!     He  repeated  it  mechanically  at  first. 

Presently  he  stood  still  and  shuffled  pebbles  about 
with  one  foot. 

Failure!  The  word  drilled  through  consciousness, 
deeper  and  deeper,  with  keen  precision. 

He  picked  up  a  white  stone,  and,  not  unlike  some  novi- 
tiate in  magic  of  old,  held  the  pebble  in  his  palm,  gaz- 
ing down  at  its  faint  translucence  as  though  here  were 
the  crystal  ball  that  held  an  image  of  his  future.  His 
thoughts  needed  the  white  spot  as  a  point  on  which  to 
concentrate. 

Failure!  He  let  fall  the  stone.  It  struck  a  spark 
from  the  others  at  his  feet.  Thus,  perhaps  by  accident, 
came  the  primeval  discovery  of  an  element.  To  -  day 
nothing  could  have  been  more  commonplace,  yet  the 
flash  seemed  to  kindle  a  train  of  metaphor  in  his  mind. 
He  mused  crudely.  Fire  from  stone?  Wherein  lay  the 
significance  of  that?  Here  were  meanings  .  .  .  contact 
...  to  touch  and  be  touched.  Thus  only  could  the 
spark  be  struck.  This  was  the  threadbare  lesson  that 
Cuthbert  Morton  had  so  long  been  hammering  into  his 
mind;  the  need  of  contact,  mutuality,  hard  knocks. 
Now,  as  ever,  the  lesson  bored  him.  His  mental  roam- 
ing and  way  of  aloofness  were  not  to  be  forsaken  on  be- 
half of  irksome  discipline  and  fact.  How  often  had 
Morton  said,  "You  have  not  lived  life,  not  a  single  day 
of  it,  yet  you  have  dreamed  of  ages!"  To  this,  in  the 
full  pride  of  imagination,  he  had  answered  with  a  lofty 
smile.  Always  the  abstract  had  possessed  him;  theo- 
ries, generalities  —  "glittering  generalities,"  as  Morton 
had  termed  them  in  the  cant  phrase  of  the  Onerous 
Practical. 

He  walked  on.  The  rocks,  slippery  and  jagged,  be- 
gan now  for  the  first  time  to  vex  his  temper.  He  ascend- 
ed to  the  grassy  bank  above  the  shore.  Here  he  sat 
down,  then  lay,  half  reclining  on  one  elbow,  his  eyes  upon 

70 


The   Boat   of  Dreams 

the  ground.  Long  he  gazed  listlessly  at  the  starlit  earth, 
the  stuff  of  which  all  men  are  made.  Glancing  from  clod 
to  clod,  he  defined  them  in  the  figurative  sense;  called 
men  by  that  name.  Gradually  his  metaphors  grew 
mixed.  He  became  lost  amid  the  contradictions  of 
little  things.  From  these  his  mind  reacted.  He  looked 
up  dreamily  at  the  sky.  .  .  .  No,  he  would  never  set  ear 
to  the  cogs  of  common  things.  Was  it  not  more  glori- 
ous to  call  the  world  a  sphere  and  listen  to  its  note  in 
the  harmony  of  stars?  Why,  at  all,  had  affairs  of  the 
earth  laid  hold  on  him — questions  of  the  national  life, 
theories,  modern  economics,  and  the  like?  Should  not 
he  have  been  the  poet,  purely — a  timeless  nature,  above, 
apart?  .  .  .  He  did  not  perceive  the  deterrent  cause, 
was  not  aware  that  hidden  somewhere  deep  in  him 
lay  that  love  of  recognition  which,  having  found  itself 
gratified  in  those  first  immature  college  debates,  had  led 
him  on  blindly  in  ambition's  course.  From  the  evening 
when  first  he  had  been  applauded  by  his  limited  college 
world,  from  the  very  moment  when  first  a  pair  of  hands 
had  clapped  for  him,  his  character  had  changed.  Those 
hands,  in  a  way,  had  begun  to  shape  his  destiny. 

He  began  to  regret  now  that  he  had  considered  so 
deeply  the  social  scheme.  Yet  on  one  score  he  could  not 
reproach  himself.  He  had  given  to  the  book  his  best, 
the  very  best  that  was  in  him  up  to  the  present  time. 
Even  Cuthbert  Morton,  the  ever-critical,  could  not  ques- 
tion that.  But  of  what  avail  was  his  best?  It  had 
not  even  gained  a  hearing,  much  less  brought  home  a 
single  truth.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  a  blind  instinct  told  him 
to  struggle  on,  to  harness  these  forces  in  him  and  render 
them  serviceable  to  his  fellow-men.  .  .  .  And  yet  .  .  . 

For  the  moment  he  felt  helplessly  indefinite  and  of  no 
real  use.  The  first  hint  of  a  fatal  question — the  most 
fatal,  perhaps,  that  he  could  have  asked  himself — now 
found  expression  in  his  mood.  "  Is  it  worth  while?" 

71 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

When  the  first  shock  of  failure  had  passed  he  gazed 
off  and  around,  lending  himself  to  influences  of  nature. 
He  felt  the  night.  It  cast  an  inchoate  spell  over  his 
mind.  This,  in  truth,  was  night ;  this  was  very  night.  .  .  . 

Seemingly  day  had  died  into  oblivion  years  before, 
and  this  was  the  ultimate  hour.  With  the  sun  had 
gone  bodily  toil  and  questions  of  living;  with  the  stars 
came  spiritual  travail  and  the  enigma  of  life.  .  .  . 

The  leaves  and  waters  in  their  murmur  seemed  to  be 
expressing  wonder  concerning  the  nature  of  Nature's 
self.  But  this  was  the  only  whisper — this  questioning 
— ceaseless  questioning;  there  came  no  deeper  tone. .  .  . 

The  ritual  of  Nature  was  in  effect.  For  many  there 
is  no  mystery  in  these  rites — in  the  candles  above  .  .  . 
the  vague  chant  .  .  .  the  celebrant  trees.  For  others 
there  is  nothing  else.  To  the  listener  there  comes  at 
least  a  hope  of  ultimate  solution;  to  the  deaf,  of  disso- 
lution, and  no  more.  Some  in  the  active  daytime, 
wasted  by  the  fever  of  doing,  now  experience  the  deeper 
restlessness  of  being,  and  mystery  inspires  dreams. 

It  worked  so  now. 

Dream  -  things  rose  around  him.  With  occult  inco- 
herency  the  hour  impressed  itself  deep  on  his  plastic 
mind.  At  first,  while  the  breeze  whispered,  and  the 
moon  sailed  slowly  up  from  behind  the  eastern  shore, 
and  the  stars  paled  at  her  coming,  he  began  for  the 
thousandth  time  to  give  all  this  a  voice.  But  then  he  re- 
called with  vague  misgiving  how  thus  always  his  thought 
had  put  on  language,  and  abstractions  had  rushed  to  a 
flood  of  words.  Was  he  not  fatally  facile  in  receptivity 
and  utterance?  Was  he  not,  after  all,  but  a  sensitive 
medium  of  effect,  a  reflector  and  echoer  of  externals? 
Was  he  not,  indeed,  all  impression  and  expression — 
shallow  as  a  mirror? 

Stretching  out  at  full  length  on  his  back,  he  again 
looked  up  at  the  heavens.  The  platitudes  of  age  are  the 

72 


The   Boat   of   Dreams 

discoveries  of  youth.  Once  again  those  planets  over- 
head, with  their  blind  obedience  and  tranquil  yet  eternal 
motion,  impressed  their  parable  on  a  youthful  mind.  .  .  . 
He  must  blindly  pursue  his  course  .  .  .  must,  like  them, 
perpetually  move  to  shine  at  all,  and  share,  however 
humbly,  in  the  lighting  of  the  world.  The  truths  of 
youth  are  the  truisms  of  age.  He  was  struggling  to 
master  the  alphabet  of  wisdom. 

With  the  break  of  day  he  would  begin  anew  .  .  .  plod 
on  ...  and  yet  —  he  paused  suddenly.  Plod  ?  The  word 
was  utterly  distasteful.  Once  more  that  lurking,  insidi- 
ous question,  "Is  it  worth  while?" 

This  time  he  found  no  positive  answer,  but  gradually, 
as  if  some  outside  influence  were  at  work,  he  experienced 
a  strange  disquiet.  A  sound  so  low  as  to  seem  only 
psychical,  or  at  most  the  stir  of  a  current,  stole  upon  his 
mind.  Finally,  as  it  assumed  a  meaning,  he  turned  to 
face  the  bay. 

From  across  the  stretch  of  water  curving  in  between 
Mount  Hope  Point  and  the  eastern  shore  of  Bristol  glided 
a  small,  white  thing,  scarcely  more  tangible  at  first  than 
the  wayward  reflection  of  a  star.  Slowly  this  object 
shaped  itself  until  it  became  a  small  sail-boat  making  for 
the  point  near  which  he  lay. 

Almost  imperceptibly  the  craft  drew  nearer,  till  at 
last,  being  luffed  up  to  the  leeward  of  a  projecting 
rock  on  the  beach,  the  sail  stirred  listlessly  and  a  figure 
stepped  ashore. 

The  form  was  feminine,  its  grace,  in  motion  and  out- 
line, eloquent  of  youth. 

For  a  moment  the  figure  bent  forward,  as  if  making 
fast  the  boat's  painter  to  a  craggy  portion  of  the  rock. 
At  first  Lloyd  could  not  discern  the  young  girl's  face. 
She  approached  his  position  slowly,  her  head  and 
shoulders  being  slightly  inclined  downward,  as  though 
she  were  seeking  something  on  the  shore.  With  hesi- 

73 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

tating  steps,  and  looking  now  here,  now  there,  she  ap- 
proached nearer  and  nearer  to  the  rise  from  which  he 
viewed  her. 

Vaguely  he  began  to  wonder  concerning  this  appa- 
rition, her  identity  and  quest.  In  his  present  half- 
somnolent  lassitude  he  felt  little  or  no  surprise.  Ordi- 
narily the  sight  of  a  young  girl  sailing  alone  at  night 
and  landing  here  on  so  sequestered  a  shore  would  have 
amazed  him,  but  to-night  anything  seemed  possible. 
The  episode  possessed  the  usual  extravagance  of  a 
dream.  He  felt  no  desire  to  awake.  Fancifully  he 
told  himself  she  was  only  a  spirit  of  evening  .  .  .  some 
barbarian  of  a  long-lost  tribe,  haunting  the  scenes  of  her 
lifetime. 

At  last,  almost  immediately  beneath  his  vantage-point, 
she  stooped  lower  and  her  hand  reached  down. 

Instinctively  Lloyd's  eyes  sought  the  object  which 
he  knew  she  must  have  found. 

There  on  a  flat  rock  it  lay,  just  visible — a  book,  open 
at  the  title-page. 

He  leaned  over  the  bank's  edge  and  strained  his  eyes. 
To  have  read  unfamiliar  words  would  have  been  impos- 
sible, but  these  two,  alone  distinguishable  in  the  moon- 
light, met  his  gaze:  Enoch  Lloyd. 

It  was  the  author's  name — his  own ! 

With  a  motion  of  pleasure  she  raised  the  book;  then, 
to  his  indescribable  delight,  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  for 
an  instant  held  it  so.  The  act  was  like  an  opiate  to  his 
recent  wound.  A  dazed  wonder  took  possession  of  him 
— half  awe.  Beyond  doubt  it  was  all  a  dream  .  .  .  phan- 
tasmagoria, in  which  the  muse — embodied  inspiration — 
had  come  to  acknowledge  him  as  hers. 

His  feet  touched  the  rocks.  Somehow  the  contact 
rendered  consciousness  more  concrete.  An  exulting 
rush  of  satisfaction  overwhelmed  him.  Here  was  at 
least  one  spirit  that  recognized  his  own! 

74 


The   Boat  of   Dreams 

He  stepped  down,  speaking  some  word  that  he  could 
never  afterwards  recall. 

Startled,  she  glanced  swiftly  up  to  him.  Then  for  the 
first  time  he  saw  her  face.  But  the  complexity  of  the 
moment  blurred  ordinary  perception ;  his  retina  failed  to 
retain  a  single  feature;  only  the  expression  of  her  face 
impressed  his  mind. 

"  I  am  Enoch  Lloyd,"  he  found  himself  saying,  naively 
as  a  school-boy;  "the  book  is  mine." 

At  this,  a  low  cry  of  surprise  escaping  her,  she  started 
back,  only  to  pause,  wondering.  His  eyes  sparkled  as 
he  noticed  that  her  hands  clasped  tight  the  book. 

A  new  power,  all-wonderful,  indescribable,  all-myste- 
rious, ineffably  exalting,  seemed  to  be  weaving  a  spell  on 
the  loom  of  night.  Magic  was  alive  again.  The  ghost 
of  some  ancient  necromancer  stalked  abroad.  And  old 
Dame  Nature,  ever  dabbling  in  witchcraft,  was  at  his 
call.  Things  of  the  sky  and  shore  were  abetting  his 
enchantment.  Everywhere  rose  whispers  of  conspiracy. 
Already  the  breeze,  conjurer  -  like,  had  flourished  forth 
a  veil  of  cloud  and  blindfolded  the  moon. 

Enoch's  face,  thanks  to  the  translucency  of  that 
cloud  behind  his  visitor,  was  not  invisible;  hers  was. 
The  position  favored  her.  Yet  gradually,  as  the  full 
truth  dawned  in  upon  her  mind — his  actual  personality 
supplanting  some  image  preconceived — she  seemed  to 
grow  more  tangible,  until  at  last  her  eyes,  meeting  his, 
became  luminous  with  recognition. 

She  stepped  close  to  him. 

Suddenly  he  could  hear  her  breath,  its  come  and  go — 
the  whisper  of  real  life.  Suddenly  he  could  read  her 
eyes,  the  message  of  their  light — the  response  of  a  kin- 
dred nature. 

Now  she  was  no  mere  presence,  but  a  vivid  woman, 
human  as  himself,  breathing  the  same  night  air,  loving 
the  same  life,  instinct  with  the  same  vitality. 

75 


The   Triumph   of  Life 

She  had  given  the  lie  to  failure ;  nothing  else  mattered 
in  the  world. 

The  enthusiasm  of  his  volatile  nature,  ebbing  and 
flowing  with  every  mood,  rose  now  to  full  flood.  Mere 
being  surcharged  his  veins  with  fire ;  living  was  its  own 
reward. 

He  stood  motionless,  waiting  for  some  word. 

"The  book  is  yours,"  she  said,  as  if  complying  against 
her  will — "yours  and  mine."  Then  turning,  she  walked 
slowly  to  the  boat. 

Spellbound  by  that  reply,  Enoch  stood  for  a  moment 
motionless,  looking  after  her.  But  suddenly  a  sense  of 
loss  quickened  impulse.  She  was  fading  away  into  the 
night. 

He  hastened  to  pursue. 

Already  she  was  out  on  the  rock  to  which  her  boat  lay 
moored.  He  could  see  her  figure,  an  intangible  shadow, 
while  she  stooped  to  cast  loose  the  rope. 

Once  more  she  was  a  phantom. 

Aflame  with  a  desire  to  prevent  escape,  he  speedily 
gained  the  mooring;  but  now  the  shadow,  with  a  silence 
almost  spectral,  passed  across  the  yawl's  gunwale,  then 
down,  and  vanished  behind  the  sail. 

He  reached  his  hand  out  towards  the  boat.  Its  bow 
fell  away  and  beyond  his  reach.  Without  a  second's 
hesitancy  he  waded  thigh  -  deep  into  the  water  and 
spoke  imploringly  .to  the  shadow  now  visible  in  the 
stern. 

Its  face  was  averted. 

He  stood  up  to  his  waist  in  the  current,  his  eyes  deeply 
earnest  with  a  plea. 

For  an  instant  the  little  craft  hung  poised  in  the 
wind,  tentative,  as  though  itself  lacking  resolve;  then, 
before  he  could  reach  it,  the  stem  went  off  a  point  or 
two,  the  sail  began  to  draw,  it  filled,  and  suddenly — 
away! 

76 


The   Boat    of  Dreams 

Lloyd  turned  back  with  a  look  of  almost  desperate 
disappointment.  Long  he  watched  the  receding  craft, 
watched  it  wonderingly,  until — out  on  the  dark  water, 
whither-bound  he  could  not  tell — it  and  its  shadow  pilot 
dissolved  into  the  night. 


VI 
The   Footprint   of   Reality 

E/OYD'S  isolated  cottage,  probably  hereafter  to  be 
used  only  as  a  camp  for  headquarters  between 
periods  of  roving  and  to  please  him  by  the  name  of 
home,  was  fast  succumbing  to  a  wild,  reckless  vegetation 
which,  clambering  over  the  walls,  seemed  bent  on  claim- 
ing the  entire  structure  as  its  own.  Riotous  tendrils, 
all  unkempt,  mounted  to  the  low  roof;  wild  roses, 
honeysuckle,  wistaria,  clematis,  jostling  and  blossom- 
ing amid  decay.  Here  was  positively  a  stampede  of 
flowers — trellises  broken,  eaves  twisted,  shingles  torn 
asunder  by  a  swarm  of  prodigal  vines  whose  buds  were 
bursting  into  life. 

The  site  of  his  dwelling  was  the  sunny  side  of  a  wooded 
promontory  reaching  out  into  the  bay.  Before  him  lay 
the  secluded  cove,  its  border  a  crescent  of  pasture  and 
meadow-land.  Behind  him,  screened  by  a  strip  of  trees, 
ran  the  main  channel.  Dominating  the  shore  of  his 
little  peninsula,  a  hill  swept  up  from  a  fringe  of  cedars 
to  a  bare  peak.  On  the  summit,  according  to  legend, 
stood  once  on  a  time  the  seat  of  an  Indian  chief.  Even 
still  he  seems  to  haunt  the  place — Philip  and  his  swarthy 
subjects.  Near  the  shore  to-day,  discoverable  at  rare 
intervals,  lie  the  stone  corn -bowls  and  grinders  of  his 
women,  together  with  the  arrow-flints  and  axe-heads  of 
his  men.  At  night,  when  the  moon  is  high,  it  requires 
no  great  flight  of  fancy  to  imagine  the  hill  repopulated 
with  his  tribe.  About  the  base  those  dusky  cedars  sug- 

78 


The   Footprint   of   Reality 

gest  a  cordon  of  defence ;  while  here  and  there  above  the 
camp,  picketing  the  bare  summit,  two  or  three  solitary 
fir-trees,  dark  against  the  pallor  of  the  slope,  stand 
stern,  as  if  to  sentinel  a  throne. 

Here  Dame  Nature,  ancient  of  nurses,  seems  lost  in 
reminiscent  mood.  Here,  cronelike,  she  whispers  folk- 
lore to  the  later  born. 

Save  for  Enoch's  cottage,  there  was  now  no  dwelling 
on  the  southern  slope.  The  place  was  wild.  Purposely 
he  cultivated  none  of  it.  Despite  the  cackles  of  Cuth- 
bert,  he  held  peculiar  views — impractical  and  prepos- 
terous notions  —  concerning  what  he  termed  the  "im- 
maculacy of  woodland";  its  "vestal  privilege."  One 
day,  with  "beautiful  insanity,"  as  Cuthbert  called  it, 
this  poet -errant  even  up  and  declared,  "Agriculture 
where  Earth  withholds  herself  is  sheer  rapine."  To  this 
the  prosist,  logically,  "Why,  then,  plant  even  flowers  in 
untrammelled  soil?"  Thereupon,  from  the  scatter-brain 
for  answer,  several  couplets,  wherein  it  was  set  forth 
with  fitting  rhythm  and  embellishment  that  flowers  to 
these  hallowed  spots  are  no  more  than  love-songs  to  a 
maid ;  that  while  the  votaries  of  Flora  lend  to  Earth  a 
virgin  color,  those  of  Ceres  bring  a  woman's  pain. 

Such,  we  must  confess,  were  the  absurdities  of  the 
Angel. 

In  summer,  however,  he  called  this  planet  by  a  differ- 
ent name.  Truly  Earth  is  as  varied  as  her  offspring; 
all  things  to  all  of  them;  a  different  Earth  to  every  man 
and  every  season.  Another  couplet,  if  you  please,  her- 
alded the  change.  Therein  was  the  mother  of  us  all, 
irreverently  metamorphosed  from  "maid,"  at  the  end 
of  the  first  line,  to  "jade,"  at  the  end  of  the  second.  And 
who  to  blame  for  this  imbecility  but  June?  What  save 
the  smell  of  the  pines,  the  breathing  breast  of  the  water, 
the  feel  of  turf,  the  insect  drone?  Who  but  the  drowsy 
jade  herself,  opening  her  arms  to  summer? 

79 


The    Triumph   of    Life 

Small  wonder  he  loved  this  Arcady;  small  wonder  he 
disliked  the  name  of  town! 

Nevertheless,  he  was  close  to  civilization — ominous- 
ly near  the  "cogs  of  common  things."  By  rounding 
Mount  Hope  Point  he  could  stand  on  the  northeastern 
side  of  the  promontory,  and,  with  his  back  to  the  nook 
of  primitive  earth,  could  look  across  the  water  and  see 
the  modern  world  epitomized. 

There,  on  the  opposite  shore,  was  a  small  commercial 
city.  Instead  of  a  thousand  fir  -  trees  pointing  to  the 
sky,  a  forest  of  chimneys  blackened  it.  No  contrast 
could  have  been  sharper.  Here  the  bay  seemed  to  be 
stretching  out  an  arm  to  divide  the  ages. 

And  Lloyd  lived  snugly  on  the  idle  side.  His  cottage 
might  well  have  been  a  world  away.  Sheltered  by  the 
strip  of  woods,  its  back  was  turned  to  the  odious  factories, 
its  face  to  the  quiet  cove. 

The  rays  of  the  sun  were  just  aslope  across  this  inlet 
when  Lloyd  awoke  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival. 

Rising,  he  looked  out  from  the  window,  down  to  the 
cove,  off  over  the  waterway  that  lay  unrolled  like  a 
golden  tape  between  the  shores.  The  air  was  windless. 
He  could  tell  by  the  motionless  host  of  leaves  in  an 
opposite  orchard,  the  slothful  sail  of  a  fisherman's  cat- 
boat,  and  lastly  by  a  cloud  of  smoke,  low-hanging  to  the 
southward,  which  perhaps  marked  the  trail  of  the  Jam- 
boree, for  the  yacht  had  gone.  Save  for  a  few  insignifi- 
cant craft — skiffs  and  improvised  sail -boats  —  the  bay 
was  at  present  deserted,  Slocum's  light-ship  more  than 
ever  alone.  Across  the  cove  a  herd  of  cattle  were  dully 
browsing  near  the  water's  edge.  High  above  them  a 
fish-hawk  rose  from  its  nest  on  a  naked  oak-tree  and 
flapped  the  sleep  from  its  heavy  wings. 

Lloyd  frowned  at  that  shore  resentfully. 

There,  between  pasture  and  orchard,  stood  an  old 
colonial  mansion,  crowning  the  slope.  Hitherto  this 

80 


The    Footprint   of   Reality 

fair,  white  dwelling,  with  its  lofty  Doric  columns  and 
look  of  a  larger  age,  had  ever  been  good  to  see.  Until 
now  he  had  only  bemoaned  its  emptiness.  In  childhood, 
when  in  adventurous  moments  he  had  set  foot  on  the 
low  veranda  and  nerved  himself  to  peer  between  the 
shutter  -  slats,  those  columns  had  towered  above  him, 
big  as  Herculean  pillars  holding  up  the  sky.  And  the 
dark,  inexplorable  interior  had  assumed  in  Lis  mind  a 
like  immensity.  It  had  belonged,  when  he  slept,  to  a 
house  of  dreams.  Time  and  again  some  nightmare  had 
conveyed  him  thither  and  locked  him  in  the  dark.  Then 
he  would  dream  that  he  stood  there  listening  and  terror- 
struck,  tight-strung  in  the  midst  of  the  silence,  listening. 
Afraid  to  hear,  yet  straining  his  ears;  afraid  to  stir  lest 
the  floor  should  creak — always  listening!  Or  again  in  a 
dream  he  would  stand  there,  fearing  to  see  some  shape, 
yet  torturing  his  eyes  at  every  corner.  And  all  the  time 
he  knew  the  vigil  to  be  vain — the  presence  was  behind 
him!  If  it  touched  him  he  would  die.  Oh,  that  a  ray 
of  light  might  come  in  at  the  shuttered  windows !  Often 
and  often,  in  the  frenzy  of  nightmare,  he  had  prayed  and 
pleaded  for  a  single  sunbeam. 

To  all  those  dreams  there  had  never  been  a  climax. 
The  dreaded  sound  had  never  come,  nor  yet  the  fearful 
presence,  nor  yet — he  paused  in  the  recollection-— no, 
nor  yet  the  light  he  needed. 

House  of  Dreams;  House  of  Life;  House  of  the  In- 
complete ! 

Musing  thus,  Enoch  frowned.  The  new  and  living 
occupant  seemed  little  more  conducive  to  tranquillity 
than  ever  had  his  formless  predecessor.  The  vicinity 
would  still  be  haunted.  By  what  ironical  fate  had 
Stephen  Lee,  the  publisher,  come  here  to  live  —  the 
man  of  all  others  whose  proximity  would  recall  failure  ? 
That  gentleman,  as  yet  unknown,  seemed  now  to  sup- 
plant the  spectre  of  boyJiood.  Rhetorically,  Lloyd 

6  8l 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

inveighed  against  him  as  the  "ghost  of  a  dead  ambi- 
tion." 

Enoch  glowered  at  the  shuttered  windows.  Why  did 
they  not  conceal  mere  emptiness?  Is  manhood  also  to 
be  haunted  ?  Does  the  laying  of  one  ghost  but  resurrect 
another?  It  seemed  so.  And  even  by  day  this  new- 
come  ghost  would  walk — a  privilege  denied  to  shades 
in  childhood.  Forgetting  his  early  nightmares,  the 
dreamer  for  a  moment  looked  back  again  and  recalled 
more  delicate  fancies.  How  fair  this  abode  had  long  ago 
seemed  when  bathed  in  sunshine!  How  truly  an  en- 
chanted palace!  Would  that  it  might  have  remained 
so.  Set  in  emerald  foliage,  simple  yet  majestic,  mel- 
ancholy yet  beautiful,  massive  yet  so  graceful  that 
seemingly  its  foundation  might  well  have  been  the  air, 
how  eloquently  it  had  then  suggested  a  snowdrift  trans- 
formed by  Aladdin's  lamp!  Time  was  when  imagina- 
tion had  tenanted  that  house  and  orchard  with  a  com- 
pany of  elves ;  time  was  when  the  architecture  had  been 
ascribed  to  genii  and  bumblebees  had  gossiped  of  Sleep- 
ing Beauty  in  an  upper  room. 

Sleeping  Beauty?  Enoch  started  and  gazed  more  in- 
tently at  the  house.  At  an  old  stone  dock  lay  an  aerial 
craft  that  seemed  familiar.  Perhaps  it  is  not  alone  the 
shadows  of  childhood's  ghosts  that  lengthen  into  ma- 
turity. A  beneficent  spirit  sees  to  it  that  the  rays  of 
happier  fancies  spread  forward  too. 

Sleeping  Beauty?  He  surveyed  the  closed  shutters 
of  the  upper  story  in  bewilderment.  The  inmates  of 
that  fateful  house  had  not  yet  wakened  to  the  day.  They 
slept,  and  she —  He  rubbed  his  eyes.  What  had  been 
the  denouement  of  that  old  fantasy?  A  lover  must 
come  to  break  the  spell.  He  smiled.  Another  dream, 
more  vivid  than  any  of  childhood,  filled  his  mind  —  a 
dream  of  the  night  before.  Dazedly  he  redreamed  it 
now  in  the  idle  summer  morning.  And  as  he  did  so  the 

82 


The   Footprint   of   Realitg 

perplexity  of  his  expression  deepened.  Was  it  a  dream? 
The  question  became  vital.  Suddenly  he  leaned  for- 
ward over  the  sill  and  shot  a  glance  downward  at  a 
wharf-like  rock  on  the  shore.  Next,  with  a  motion  of 
new  activity,  he  turned  to  cast  an  incredulous  yet  half- 
expectant  look  at  the  chair  over  which  his  clothes  were 
hanging.  He  started.  The  clothes  were  undeniably 
damp-looking,  and  a  little  pool  of  water  on  the  floor, 
into  which  telltale  drops  from  the  chair  were  still  trick- 
ling, sparkled  in  the  sunshine.  His  eyes  caught  the 
sparkle  and  lighted  up.  Quickly  he  turned  to  the  win- 
dow and  measured  at  a  glance  the  tide-mark  on  a  strip 
of  hard-ribbed  sand.  Partly  satisfied  with  this  survey, 
he  threw  on  a  bath-gown  and  hastened  out  for  a  closer 
inspection. 

Twice  he  walked  up  and  down  the  strip,  his  eyes  in- 
tent on  the  shelving  sand. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  stooped  low,  and  inspected 
something. 

As  he  straightened  up  after  this  scrutiny  a  veil  of 
bewilderment  seemed  to  be  snatched  from  his  eyes,  leav- 
ing them  clear,  alight,  and  awake  to  morning.  Throwing 
his  head  back,  he  looked  vauntingly  up  and  around, 
as  though  to  dare  the  sky,  then  gazed  once  more 
at  the  old,  white  house  —  House  of  a  Dream  Come 
True! 

But  the  gaze  was  not  protracted.  Your  Arcadian 
lover  is  a  healthy  youth.  Half  god,  half  cub,  his  hour  of 
dawn  means  immortality — and  breakfast. 

Returning  to  the  grove,  Enoch  filled  his  arms  with 
firewood,  whistling  random  airs  as  he  gathered  it; 
whistling  as  he  brought  it  to  the  cabin;  whistling  as  it 
sprang  into  a  blaze.  And  presently  the  coffee-pot  was 
singing  a  refrain ;  presently  a  breeze  woke  up  across  the 
water,  and,  frolicking  hither,  fribbled  with  the  leaves. 
From  out  in  the  sunshine  came  the  hum  of  bees,  the 

83 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

caw  of  an  outlaw  crow,  the  clung  of  a  loafing  bull-frog. 
Busybodies  of  the  woods  seemed  to  be  chattering  out- 
rageously with  gossips  of  the  air. 

All  because  a  footprint — a  small  and  feminine  foot- 
print— lay  impressed  on  the  golden  sand ! 


VII 
The    Battle   o*   the   Motes 

AP  a  corner  of  the  house  with  the  Doric  columns  there 
rose  from  ground  to  roof  an  old  wistaria  vine  which, 
in  its  upward  climb  of  years,  had,  among  other  demol- 
ishments,  loosened  clapboards,  twisted  a  lightning-rod, 
torn  off  a  shutter-hinge,  and  finally  played  havoc  with 
the  coping.  Spreading  out  over  either  wall,  it  was  now, 
however,  so  far  tamed  that  whereas  on  one  side  it  still 
clung  tenaciously  to  the  darkness  of  the  eaves,  on  the 
other  it  basked  in  the  sunshine  and  framed  a  window. 

The  shutters  of  that  window,  having  in  the  long  period 
of  inoccupancy  lost  several  slats  to  the  vandal,  were  still 
in  a  state  of  disrepair;  and  though,  thanks  to  a  liberal  use 
of  pruning-shears,  their  swing  had  been  restored,  they 
afforded  but  little  protection  against  the  sunlight.  Be- 
hind them  a  bedroom,  very  hospitable  to  the  dawn, 
offered  poor  retreat  for  a  lie-abed. 

This  morning  the  usual  fray  was  afoot  between  the 
powers  of  light  and  darkness.  First,  a  single  sun-ray 
stole,  scoutlike,  along  the  wall,  and  there  hovered  for  a 
moment  over  a  bed  in  one  corner,  as  though  to  survey 
that  coveted  dominion.  Then  creeping  stealthily  down, 
it  marshalled  an  army  from  the  window.  Through  every 
slatless  aperture  they  came  and  skirmished  about  the 
pillow.  In  the  middle  of  that  fair  battle-field  was  the 
citadel  of  sleep. 

( Who  stands  by  the  Lake  o'  Dreams  f  .  .  .  He  speaks : 
"  The  book  is  mine."  .  .  .) 

85 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

The  attack  of  the  sun  begins.  Arrows  of  gold  fly  fast. 
The  shadows  hold  their  ground.  There  is  a  mele"e  on 
the  pillow.  But  suddenly  the  king  of  the  rays,  mount- 
ing his  heights  above,  discharges  an  avalanche  of  sun- 
shine. Down  it  rushes  through  the  window,  slantwise, 
invincible,  straight  against  the  portals  of  the  town. 

(She  answers:  "  The  book  is  yours  and  mine."  ...  He 
fades.  .  .  .  She  tries  in  vain  to  call  aloud.  .  .  .  John  a' 
Dreams  is  going.  .  .  .) 

The  battle  turns.  The  citadel  surrenders.  The  port- 
cullises are  raised.  In  go  the  shining  armies. 

(Oh,  for  another  moment  to  recall  him  .  .  .  one  second 
more  in  which  to  catch  the  dream  and  hold  it!  ...  She 
strives  to  close  the  gates  again,  shrinking  from  the  sun- 
light.) 

To  the  victors  belong  the  spoils  of  sleep,  the  loot  of 
dreams.  They  pillage. 

(Well  and  good  ...  it  was  nothing  .  .  .  only  a  dream 
.  .  .  away  with  it  all  to  the  shadows  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  his 
eyes!) 

Marion  started  to  rise  with  a  motion  of  quick,  wide- 
awake activity,  but  paused  on  the  bed's  edge  as  though 
some  outer  strand  in  the  web  of  sleep  could  not  thus  by 
mere  intention  be  lightly  broken. 

With  one  foot  touching  the  rug  at  her  bedside,  she  sat 
there  looking  bewilderedly  at  the  floor.  From  the  spot- 
less, new-laid  matting  at  her  feet  rose  the  indefinable 
fragrance  of  dried  grasses,  in  which,  as  it  were,  the  scent 
of  the  sunlight  was  retained. 

Marion  swept  back  strands  of  tawny  hair  from  her 
forehead,  as  though  here  were  the  silken  webbing  of  the 
spell. 

But  the  return  to  the  "valley  titanic"  is  fascinating 
emprise.  One  goes  now  as  a  stranger,  no  longer  at  home 
in  its  shadows,  but  impatient  to  discover  its  borders,  to 
pitch  one's  tent  on  its  wild  frontier. 

86 


The   Battle    of  the   Motes 

Marion  found  herself  striving  to  define  that  boundary- 
line. 

Where  had  reality  ended  and  the  dream  begun? 

At  first  there  was  seemingly  no  division  at  all;  epi- 
sodes blended;  she  had  been  dreaming  of  a  dream. 
But  gradually  her  mind,  by  nature  as  clear  and  direct  as 
the  large,  gray  eyes  expressing  it,  sequenced  thought. 
She  meditated  back  to  the  actual  yesterday,  recalling 
incidents  unquestionably  real. 

Apparently  the  cause  of  all  the  complexity  was  a 
book  —  one  of  her  father's  unsuccessful  publications. 
This  book  had  come  like  a  person  into  her  life.  Almost 
word  for  word  she  could  remember  certain  passages,  and 
how  the  author  had  seemed  to  be  writing  to  her  per- 
sonally, opening  up  new  vistas  of  thought,  promising 
the  exploration  of  an  unknown  world,  and  then,  without 
warning,  deserting  her  on  the  verge  of  that  unimagined 
future.  At  the  first  reading  the  book  had  controlled 
her  so  completely  that  she  had  sat  for  hours  together 
awaiting  the  fulfilment  of  the  end.  She  had  felt  the  in- 
fluence of  a  nature  strangely  magnetic  to  her  own.  The 
passage  that  appealed  to  her  most  was  this:  "Love  is 
the  capitulation  of  heaven."  She  could  not  help  frown- 
ing, though,  whenever  she  read  that  sentence.  Did  he 
know?  Had  he  learned?  At  the  first  reading  she  had 
impatiently  hurried  through  to  the  end.  But,  with  that 
vague  conclusion,  what  was  there  save  to  read  again? 
Evidently  her  desire  to  do  so  had  engendered  all  the 
perplexities  of  the  nearest  past.  Frowning,  she  told 
herself  the  affair  was  hopelessly  bewildering.  Now 
that  she  saw  what  was  coming  in  retrospection,  she 
proceeded  to  blind  her  mind's  eye.  She  continued  to 
pretend  she  was  still  in  the  dark  as  to  the  denouement 
of  last  evening.  Perhaps  she  was  over-timid  at  thought 
of  facing  so  great  a  climax. 

Of  course  the  beginning  was  plain.  This  she  was  bold 

87 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

enough  to  admit.  Yesterday,  late  in  the  afternoon,  she 
had  been  idling  over  those  fateful  pages  on  the  shore 
near  Mount  Hope  Point.  The  influence  of  the  book  had 
then  become  so  strong  that  later — here  she  paused,  flush- 
ing—  later  she  had  written  to  its  author  as  to  a  needed 
friend.  Was  there  any  question  of  this?  "Yes,"  said 
Timidity;  "there  might  be."  "Except  for  the  fact," 
added  a  throbbing  consciousness,  "that  the  proof — " 

Marion  doubtfully  eyed  the  pillow,  then,  plucking  up 
courage,  slipped  a  hand  thereunder  and  slowly  drew  out 
the  telltale  missive.  Her  blushes  deepened.  There  was 
nothing  now  but  to  go  straight  to  the  end.  She  had 
lost  the  book.  Last  evening  while  her  father  had  been 
dozing  in  the  library  she  had  missed  it  —  missed  it, 
wondered — and  what  then?  Well,  she  could  not  deny 
it.  She  had  gone  in  search.  This  was  natural.  She 
confessed  it  implied  nothing  obscurely  dreamlike.  Often 
she  sailed  in  the  little  Ariel  at  night  when  the  moon  was 
up  and  the  water  calm.  Oh  no;  this  was  not  extraor- 
dinary, but  the  result  of  that  quest  looked  very  in- 
credible. She  had  set  out  to  find  the  book,  and  with  it 
she  had  found —  She  breathed  faster.  It  almost  seem- 
ed as  though  her  letter,  sent  to  nowhere,  had  been  an- 
swered as  if  received! 

For  a  moment,  being  now  on  the  threshold  of  the  dis- 
covery, she  again  invested  the  affair  with  a  slight  haze. 
It  was  far  too  startling  an  event  to  be  defined  imme- 
diately. 

Who  had  come  out  of  the  night  to  greet  her?  Could 
it  have  actually  been  Enoch  Lloyd  ?  Her  lips  parted ; 
her  lashes  drooped.  Half  afraid,  she  still  disputed  his 
reality.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  had  never  occurred — that 
meeting  on  the  moonlit  shore?  Yes,  the  thing  was  a 
dream.  Her  longing  to  meet  and  know  him  had  con- 
jured up  his  form  in  sleep. 

Thus  idling  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  in  the  early  morn- 

88 


The   Battle    of  the   Motes 

ing,  Marion  fell  to  hoodwinking  herself  (a  rare  delight), 
until  at  last  the  deception  prevailed,  and  with  some 
alarm  she  began  to  believe  it.  Oh,  what  if  he  was  still 
at  the  other  end  of  the  world?  Well,  doubtless  it  was 
safer  to  think  so.  Then  she  would  not  be  disappointed 
when  the  days  passed  and  she  never  again  met  him. 
Yes,  he  was  only  a  man  of  moon-stuff,  .  .  .  nothing  more. 
And  yet,  ...  his  eyes! 

Marion  stood  up,  went  to  the  window,  threw  wide  the 
blinds.  A  flood  of  sunshine  filled  the  room.  No  longer 
an  intruder,  but  now  a  welcome  guest,  it  seemed  almost 
as  much  at  home  here  as  in  the  fields — nearly  as  native 
to  the  white  wainscoting  and  immaculate  white  furni- 
ture as  to  the  pots  of  wild  flowers  that  lined  the  sill. 
Indeed,  few  blooms  could  have  caught  the  light  more 
brightly  than  the  printed  wreaths  and  nosegays  of  the 
dimity  hangings  —  quaint,  beribboned  blossoms,  sug- 
gestive of  old-world  carnivals  and  a  battle  of  flowers  in 
which  most  of  the  pelted  missiles  had  been  lodged  in  the 
curtains'  folds. 

The  bedroom,  thus  inviting  the  day,  had  a  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  look,  at  pleasing  variance  with  its  present 
atmosphere  of  femininity  and  youth.  The  combination 
seemed  unusually  complete — complete,  that  is,  except 
for  a  single  lack,  and  this  by  the  average  occupant  of  a 
bedroom  would  have  been  deeply  felt.  There  was  not 
a  looking-glass  worthy  of  the  name!  Over  the  white 
dressing-table  hung,  it  is  true,  an  excellent  specimen  of 
antique  mirrory;  but  this,  though  beautiful  to  look  at, 
was  almost  worthless  to  look  in.  After  the  way  of  its 
kind,  it  shrouded  things  with  mist.  Every  morning  and 
evening  it  veiled  a  face  that  deserved  far  better  treat- 
ment, and,  ruder  yet,  obscured  the  lights  of  a  pair  of 
eyes  from  their  owner's  casual  inspection.  But,  so  far, 
the  old-fashioned  mirror  was  mirror  enough  for  Marion. 
Evidently  in  her  opinion  the  casement  of  the  window 

89 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

framed  a  picture  more  worthy  of  attention  —  Mount 
Hope,  its  rocks  and  picket-like  cedars;  the  distant  cot- 
tage, claimed  by  nature;  a  passing  sail;  a  passing  bird;  a 
patch  of  blossoms.  All  these  bits  of  the  great  out-doors, 
seeming  as  though  sketched  on  the  diamond-panes,  were 
apparently  deemed  of  far  more  interest  than  the  face 
that  like  a  dream  -  face  occasionally  haunted  the  hazy 
looking-glass. 

To  these  impressions  Marion  yielded  now 

Hotter  and  wider  the  sunshine  blazed  into  t..e  room. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  in  the  heart  of  it,  half  surrender- 
ing to  the  day;  stood  motionless,  breathing  slowly — a  fig- 
ure slender  and  pure  white,  save  where  her  skin,  through 
the  sheer  lawn  of  her  night-robe,  rivalled  the  blush  of 
blossoms,  and  her  hair,  catching  the  radiance,  glowed 
warm.  Crowned  by  that  aureole,  and  sovereignly  erect, 
she  faced  Nature.  While  she  stood  there  the  letter  of 
yesterday  fluttered  to  her  feet.  Her  fingers,  missing 
it,  intertwined  themselves  behind  her.  Meanwhile  her 
breast,  slight  yet  well  defined,  and  softening  the  lines 
of  its  covering's  whiteness,  rose  and  fell  so  gently  as  to 
suggest  a  rhythm  in  concinnity  with  the  tide.  Her  lips, 
now  slightly  parted  under  the  lingering  sentiency  of  her 
mood,  wore  the  look  of  wild-rose  petals  just  unfolding 
to  the  sun. 

In  through  the  window  came  a  flux  of  summer  air, 
palpitant  and  heavy  with  fragrance — a  vast,  deep-given 
exhalation  from  the  lungs  of  Earth,  as  though  the  mother 
herself  had  come  so  close  to  Marion  that  even  their  life- 
breaths  were  exchanged. 

The  girl  turned  slowly,  and,  catching  up  the  sun-shot 
hair  from  about  her  shoulders  (a  motion  that  seemingly 
might  have  burned  her  fingers),  seated  herself  at  the 
cloudy  glass.  Then,  as  her  glance  unconcernedly  wan- 
dered downward  from  the  dim  reflection,  she  suddenly 
started,  let  fall  the  silken  burden,  and  uttered  a  little  cry. 

90 


The   Battle    of  the   Motes 

Slowly,  like  a  mist  dissolving,  the  self-imposed  be- 
wilderment left  her  eyes.  To  hoodwink  herself  was  no 
longer  possible.  The  episode  was  real. 

On  the  dressing-table  lay  a  book  —  a  book  with  its 
title  hidden  by  the  lower  edge  of  the  looking-glass,  but 
its  author's  name,  now  so  familiar  to  her,  speakingly  re- 
vealed. 

The  name  was  Enoch  Lloyd. 


VIII 
The   Mash   of   Blossoms 

"QUNSHINE  or  shadow,  which  shall  it  be?"  The 
v^  question  came  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  and  there 
was  no  response.  "Dear  me,  I've  almost  forgotten  the 
whims  of  all  you  children.  Let's  see."  Mr.  Stephen  Lee, 
with  a  frown,  pondered  deeply.  Beads  of  perspiration 
stood  out  on  his  brow,  whether  from  exertion  or  the 
present  quandary  it  is  hard  to  say. 

Though  quaintly  buoyant  and  somewhat  juvenile  in 
activity,  Mr.  Lee  was  not  one  of  those  who,  with  that  un- 
graceful tenacity  often  marking  the  verge  of  age,  cling 
to  a  prime  long  past;  the  prime  clung  to  him  naturally. 
Significant  signs  in  his  dress  and  manner  showed  that,  at 
least  in  outward  respects,  he  would  never  pass  it.  For 
example,  he  held  occasionally  to  his  kindly  eyes  a  pair 
of  gold -rimmed  glasses,  which,  instead  of  the  modern 
spring,  had  a  wabbly  hinge  at  the  nose  that  rendered 
them,  like  their  wearer,  exceedingly  impractical.  He 
wore,  too,  one  of  those  elliptical  rings  about  his  cravat 
in  place  of  the  later  scarf-pin.  At  first  these  may  seem 
mere  sartorial  trivialities,  but  upon  acquaintance  with 
the  little  old  gentleman  they  became  symbols  of  him- 
self— the  eye-glasses,  of  his  sublime  disregard  for  utili- 
tarian principles;  the  scarf-pin,  of  his  stand-still  at  a 
middle  age  somewhere  back  in  the  sixties.  And  his 
round  face,  pink  as  a  baby's,  had  likewise,  as  he  apolo- 
getically expressed  it,  "failed  to  acquire  many  new 
wrinkles."  It  possessed  that  bright  and  beaming  child- 

92 


The   Mask   of  Blossoms 

ishness  through  which  age  passes  on  its  way  to  the  second 
infancy.  His  voice  contained  the  only  hint  of  descent 
from  the  summit  of  a  cheerful  life.  Not  that  there  was 
any  rasp  or  crack  in  it,  but  only  a  slight  falter,  an  un- 
certainty, as  now,  for  instance,  when  he  commanded 
affectionately,  "Children,  you  must  go  to  bed." 

The  words,  unanswered  as  before,  seem  commonplace. 
Not  so  when  the  sound  of  his  voice  is  supplemented  by 
a  glance  at  his  position. 

There  was  not  a  child  in  sight.  Mr.  Lee  stood  ankle- 
deep  in  the  fresh-turned  earth  of  his  garden,  addressing 
with  grandfatherly  air  a  pot  of  flowers. 

' '  Yes ,  yes , "  he  said ,  at  length ;  ' '  you  asters  like  warmth . 
I'll  put  you  near  the  petunias,"  with  which  decision  Mr. 
Lee  knelt  down  and  proceeded  with  scrupulous  care  to 
lay  his  charge  in  the  lap  of  Mother  Earth;  then  many 
others  in  the  same  row,  after  frequent  trips  to  the  green- 
house, till  a  single  file  of  diminutive  green  things  had 
changed  their  quarters.  "Now  go  to  sleep,  all  of  you," 
commanded  their  guardian ;  whereat  he  fell  first  to  the 
critical  contemplation  of  a  stunted  horse-chestnut-tree 
across  the  garden,  then  to  inspecting  a  handful  of  seeds 
with  scrutiny  as  minute  as  that  of  a  lapidary  studying 
his  latest  purchase. 

Now  and  again,  while  he  pottered  about  among  "the 
children,"  as  he  always  called  the  old-time  flowers  of  his 
garden,  his  only  actual  child  glanced  up  from  a  book 
and  watched  him  with  motherly  eyes. 

For  the  bestowal  of  these  frequent  glances  she  occu- 
pied an  excellent  vantage-point.  From  the  house  a  lane 
wandered  to  the  water,  passing  on  its  way  an  apple  or- 
chard run  to  wood,  the  contortions  of  whose  trunks  and 
branches  suggested  some  orgy  of  nature  and  a  profligate 
old  age.  One  of  the  trees,  in  particular,  reeling  up  the 
slope  between  house  and  orchard,  bore  in  every  limb  and 
gesture  signs  of  a  reckless  life.  Bold  as  a  tipsy  major,  he 

93 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

stood — or,  better,  staggered — before  the  ranks  of  his  fel- 
low-roisterers, as  though  to  lead  that  carousing  crew 
against  the  house.  (Leave  decorum  to  the  pines,  the  dour 
cedars!)  With  arms  abroad  and  trunk  lurching,  he  was, 
indeed,  as  Mr.  Lee  put  it,  "a  case."  Homeric,  ribald, 
fat -girthed,  buccaneer  -  like  in  yaw  and  careen,  here, 
while  three  generations  of  men  had  measured  their 
lengths  in  the  grave,  this  vagabond  of  the  orchard  had 
thrived  on  riotous  living — a  Falstaff  among  trees. 

Often  and  often  Marion,  idling  in  the  orchard,  would 
survey  him  with  a  quaint  remonstrance.  Her  father's 
verdict  had  caught  her  mind,  and  she  rebelled  against  it. 
Feminine,  she  found  none  of  these  grotesqueries  in  nat- 
ure, no  burlesques  of  humanity,  no  kinship  in  prodi- 
gality. She  could  appreciate  the  sadness  everywhere, 
and  the  joy — the  gentler  side.  Nor  was  the  might  lost 
on  her — the  force,  the  sublimity,  the  Inevitable  Tragic. 
All  this  both  exalted  and  oppressed  her  mind.  But  the 
travesty  of  nature  was  for  other  eyes.  She  failed  to 
feel  the  grimness  of  Earth's  humor;  all  was  fair.  How 
deeply,  how  openly,  she  loved  it — every  detail  and  the 
whole!  To  her  the  orchard  was  no  camp  of  revellers, 
but  rather  a  company  of  war-worn  veterans  battered  by 
the  northeast  wind.  She  called  it  "Their  Last  Stand." 
And  as  for  their  rugged  old  leader,  how  Herculean  his 
struggle  up  the  hill! 

Truly,  nature  is  anything  to  any  one  —  thousand- 
faced,  all- various.  Up  amid  the  branches  of  the  old 
apple-tree  Marion  was  reading.  Screened  by  the  foliage, 
she  lay  along  a  rambling  bough,  her  white  dress  merely 
flecking  the  interstices,  as  if  here  and  there  the  dots  of 
its  whiteness  amid  the  green  were  merely  a  separate 
cluster  of  the  blossoms.  She  felt  a  quiet  satisfaction 
this  afternoon  in  the  belief  that  she  and  her  father  were 
to  spend  the  evening  together  without  visitors.  As  Mr. 
Lee,  in  whom  nothing  save  absent-mindedness  exceeded 

94 


The  Mask    of>   Blossoms 

hospitality,  had  entirely  forgotten  his  note  to  a  certain 
person,  she,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  that  person's  in- 
vitation to  dinner.  Her  every  thought,  though,  had  a 
trick  to-day  of  playing  the  truant  and  running  off  to 
keep  an  imaginary  tryst  with  the  stranger.  There  was 
something  rather  disquieting  in  this  breach  of  discipline, 
an  element  at  times  almost  alarming,  with  what  seemed 
like  threats  of  a  general  revolution. 

Marion  vaguely  rebelled.  All  day,  in  a  perfunctory 
sort  of  way,  she  had  been  endeavoring  to  keep  the  peace. 
But  now,  late  in  the  afternoon,  under  the  spell  of  the 
reaching  shadows  and  western  haze,  the  effort  demanded 
unusual  decision.  She  closed  her  book.  This,  at  least, 
was  a  decisive  act — something  definite.  Pressing  its 
covers  close,  she  felt  as  if  an  influence  were  being  im- 
prisoned between  them  and  there  lay  helpless,  merely 
at  the  will  of  her  hands. 

But  suddenly  she  listened,  startled.  Below,  in  the 
dog-grass  at  the  edge  of  the  orchard,  something  stirred. 
It  sounded  like  a  footstep.  She  shot  a  look  at  the  gar- 
den. Her  father  was  still  there.  Why  should  she  hesi- 
tate before  glancing  in  the  other  direction  ?  She  smiled 
at  the  absurdity  of  it;  then,  from  a  small  opening  in  the 
foliage,  straightway  gazed  boldly  at  the  orchard.  Slow- 
ly from  the  soft  shadows  of  her  neck  a  flush  stole  up- 
ward, wide  over  her  cheeks  and  temples.  She  must  have 
breathed  rather  fast  and  hard  in  that  moment,  for  a  flake 
of  the  apple-blossoms  close  to  her  parted  lips  fell  away 
and  floated,  gossamer  white,  downward.  It  was  as  if 
some  virgin  whisper  had  fallen  to  earth — a  petal. 

On  the  foremost  margin  of  the  orchard,  bold  against 
its  vague  arabesques  of  shadow,  stood  an  erect  figure, 
full  in  the  sun.  Instantly  she  recognized  it  and  drew 
back.  A  pair  of  eyes,  never  forgettable,  were  besieging 
her  vantage-point.  She  feared  to  move,  breathless  with 
uncertainty.  Whether  or  not  he  had  yet  discovered 

95 


The  Triumph  of  Life 

her  she  could  not  discern.  Probably  yes.  His  glance 
at  the  tree  seemed  personal.  It  was  —  for  a  different 
reason. 

On  him  that  rakish  old  apple-tree  always  had  exer- 
cised a  peculiar  fascination.  His  eyes  were  now  alight 
while  for  the  hundredth  time  he  surveyed  it.  The  look 
of  perennial  revelry  was  his  as  well.  Seeming  to  under- 
stand something,  he  smiled.  Truth  is,  the  tree  to  him 
was  neither  "case"  nor  tipsy  major,  nor  by  any  means 
Herculean  in  suggestion.  With  arms  gesticulating  a 
satyr's  pantomime  and  head  decked  out  in  a  fillet  of 
blossoms — a  fillet  wantonly  awry — it  seemed  to  him  a 
divine  old  rascal — none  other,  in  fact,  than  the  great 
god  Pan.  Now  for  the  hundredth  time  his  eyes  lit  up, 
sparkled,  and  danced,  as  though  dim  memories  recalled 
some  other  shore,  some  pagan  shore — Ionian,  mythic, 
shepherded  and  sung ;  a  shore  whose  reeds  were  plucked 
and  played  on;  a  shore  against  whose  emerald  slope 
this  piper  had  often  flashed — white,  shaggy,  wild,  hila- 
rious— turning  the  very  sunshine  into  music. 

Was  he  not  of  those  days?  Did  he  not  remember? 
Could  he  not  still  hear  the  stir  of  agile  haunches  as  they 
rose,  the  flourish  of  pipes  it  was  ecstasy  to  dance  to? 
Would  the  world  ever  return  to  that  golden  age  ? 

Truly,  nature  is  anything  to  any  one  —  thousand- 
faced,  all-various. 

Enoch  walked  slowly  towards  the  house,  while  Marion, 
breathing  freer,  watched  him. 

Mr.  Lee  at  the  moment,  being  apparently  more  than 
ever  irritated  by  the  sight  of  that  stunted  horse-chestnut- 
tree  across  the  garden,  seemed  to  look  past  his  approach- 
ing guest  without  a  sign  of  notice.  "What  in  the 'world 
are  you  here  for?"  he  mumbled,  apostrophizing  the  mis- 
erable specimen  of  treehood.  "I'll  have  you  turned  out 
in  short  order." 

Lloyd  stared  at  the  annoyed  little  person  before  him, 

96 


The  Mask  of  Blossoms 

too  amazed  at  first  even  to  resent  the  reception.  This 
irascible  individual  appeared  to  be  a  sober  person,  evi- 
dently not  the  gardener  in  his  cups. 

"Miserable  tramp!"  he  continued,  "you  ruin  the 
landscape;"  and,  turning  his  back  on  the  malformed 
sapling,  Mr.  Lee  began  deeply  to  contemplate  a  bulb 
that  lay  on  the  ground  awaiting  his  attention. 

For  a  minute  Lloyd  stood  speechless,  gazing  at  him. 
To  be  called  a  tramp  and  miner  of  landscapes,  to  be  in- 
vited to  dine,  then  greeted  thus  by  some  one  who  was 
apparently  a  friend  of  the  host,  was  not  conducive  to 
cordiality.  But  Lloyd  controlled  his  quick  temper.  "  Is 
Mr.  Lee  in  the  house?" 

The  publisher  turned  and  looked  up  in  bewilderment. 
The  question,  so  suddenly  put,  seemed  to  benumb  his 
mind,  which,  as  is  the  custom  of  certain  tranquil  men- 
talities in  the  moment  of  a  surprise,  absented  itself 
straightway,  and  Mr.  Lee  fumbled  with  his  impractical 
glasses,  smiling  blandly. 

"Is  he?"  repeated  Lloyd. 

This  partial  reiteration  of  the  query  only  seemed  to 
deprive  it  of  all  meaning.  Yet  some  sort  of  an  answer 
seemed  imperative.  "  Can't  you  see  that  I  am  not?"  was 
the  soothing  but  ambiguous  response. 

"You!  It  is  impossible!  Mr.  Lee  would  never  be 
guilty  of  such  an  outrage!" 

The  publisher  dropped  his  precious  bulb.  "Good 
Heavens!  What's  an  outrage?" 

"You  have  insulted  me." 

Mr.  Lee's  mouth  opened  with  increased  mystification. 

"Insulted  you!"  Slowly  a  smile  came  into  the  hu- 
morous little  eyes.  "Oh,  I  see — I  see!  Forgive  me.  I 
must  have  been  talking  to  the  children." 

"The  children h"  Enoch  glanced  about  searchingly, 
then  surveyed  the  other  with  a  new  pity  and  compre- 
hension. "Where  is  Mr.  Lee?"  he  repeated,  indulgently. 
7  97 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

The  publisher  smiled  and  stared  at  his  unknown  vis- 
itor with  an  air  of  compassion.  "Who,  may  I  ask,  are 
you?" 

"  My  name  is  Lloyd.  Please  inform  Mr.  Lee  that  Mr. 
Enoch  Lloyd  has  come." 

The  publisher  started,  laughed  heartily,  and  held  out 
his  hand.  "You  —  Lloyd!  Good  gracious!  How  are 
you?  Glad  to  see  you.  Forgive  me.  I  understand. 
That  tree,  you  know  —  miserable  tramp  of  a  tree!  —  I 
must  have  been  talking  to  it.  Trees  and  flowers  are  my 
children,  you  see.  Dear  me,  why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
How  in  the  world  could  I  know  it  was  you?  So  very 
young!  And  I  hadn't  expected  you." 

"  Hadn't  expected  me?" 

"  No.  What's  surprising  in  that?  But,  look  here;  stay 
to  dinner,  won't  you?  It  will  be  ready  soon." 

Lloyd's  eyes  sparkled  with  amusement.  His  sense 
of  the  ludicrous  was  almost  extreme.  "That's  what  I 
came  for." 

"Did  you?"  Mr.  Lee's  look,  for  all  its  hospitality, 
expressed  a  certain  dubiousness  concerning  the  infor- 
mality of  such  a  proceeding. 

"Yes."  This  with  evident  appreciation  of  his  host's 
discomfiture.  "  I  dine  wherever  the  mood  takes  me." 

"Ah,  indeed!  You  authors  are  such  Bohemians. 
Yet  suppose — " 

Lloyd  waved  off  the  implied  objection.  "I  go  to  any 
house  I  please,"  he  observed,  with  mischievous  impu- 
dence. 

At  this  a  low  ejaculation  escaped  the  publisher's  lips. 
"  Intolerable!" 

"When  I'm  asked,"  added  Lloyd,  laughing,  and  held 
out  the  forgotten  invitation. 

Once  more  the  unmanageable  eye 'glasses  went  up, 
and  once  again  to  the  eyes  behind  him  that  contagious 
merriment  of  expression.  Then,  however,  there  came  a 

98 


The   Mask    of   Blossoms 

droop  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth  and  the  voice's  tremor 
grew  more  apparent  even  in  laughter.  "I  must  be 
getting  old,"  allowed  Mr.  Lee;  "and  I  never  expected 
to!"  Whereat,  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  response, 
he  continued,  cheerfully,  "I'll  just  plant  this  bulb  and 
water  the  flowers.  Would  you  mind  looking  for  Marion, 
my  daughter?  Introduce  yourself  and  tell  her  you're 
coming  to  dinner." 

Lloy d 's  eyes  lighted  up  with  impatient  fervor.  ' '  Where 
can  I  find  Miss  Lee?" 

The  publisher  astonished  his  visitor  by  glancing 
around  with  upraised  eyes,  as  though  vaguely  searching 
the  air.  "  Oh,  up  in  a  tree  somewhere." 

"In  a  tree!" 

"Yes,  she's  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  birds." 

The  last  words  were  lost  on  Enoch.  Already  he 
was  walking  about  with  eyes  aloft  on  the  multitude 
of  branches. 

He  felt  as  if  his  one  aim  now  was  to  find  his  visitor  of 
the  night  before.  The  chances  all  seemed  in  favor  of  this ; 
the  publisher's  daughter  must  surely  be  his  muse  incar- 
nate. The  yawl  Ariel  had  told  a  story.  Yet  he  could 
not  be  positively  certain  until  he  had  seen  and  talked 
with  her.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  the  feminine 
spirit  of  the  boat  and  shore — "the  savior  of  his  hope," 
as  he  extravagantly  called  her — could  ever  again,  after 
that  fleeting  moment  of  their  meeting,  appear  to  him 
tangible  and  human  like  himself.  Moreover,  he  felt 
somewhat  doubtful  as  to  whether  he  would  recognize 
her  under  different  conditions.  The  shadows  had  been 
so  deep,  the  light  of  her  eyes  so  transient,  the  whole  epi- 
sode so  visionary  and  unreal. 

For  a  moment  he  glanced  at  the  cove  and  at  a  skiff 
in  which  he  had  crossed  it,  almost  wishing  he  had  not 
come.  Then  suddenly  he  braved  the  case,  and,  as  if  im- 
pelled by  instinct,  drew  nearer  and  nearer  in  his  lofty 

99 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

search  to  the  tree  called  Pan.  Below  it,  finally,  he 
paused  and  gazed  upward. 

Marion  hid  her  face  behind  the  leaves.  She  was  rebel- 
ling against  his  search.  Should  they  meet  now  he  would 
recognize  her  dress  and  see  the  book  in  her  hand.  She 
would  appear  to  him  under  the  same  conditions  as  be- 
fore. Intuitively  she  felt  that  recognition  would  at  once 
give  him  an  intimate  grasp  of  her  nature,  and  his  would 
claim  close  kinship  with  her  own.  She  dreaded  his 
consciousness  of  their  natural  bond;  and  though  she 
feared  the  Ariel's  betrayal,  she  determined,  if  possible, 
to  conceal  her  identity. 

It  was  her  pride  that  held  her  deep  in  a  recess  of  the 
tree,  glad  of  its  leafy  screen;  it  was  her  pride  that  re- 
joiced in  the  deepening  dusk  and  prompted  an  evasion; 
it  was  her  pride  that  usurped  the  power  of  fate  and 
presided  over  their  future. 

The  fates  are  not  a  triumvirate,  but  rather  a  poly- 
archy  of  supreme  trifles. 

Marion's  face  was  hidden  by  a  spray  of  apple-blos- 
soms. 


IX 
The    Gentle   Philosopher 

IS  this  Miss  Lee?"  He  stood  in  the  dog-grass,  hat 
in  hand,  looking  straight  up  into  the  leafy  heights, 
intent  on  fathoming  their  secret. 

No  reply. 

His  next  words  bespoke  a  certain  obstinacy  of  persist- 
ence, a  dangerous  calm.  "  Forgive  me;  I  can  plainly  see 
that  somebody  is  there." 

Not  a  word. 

He  assumed  a  formal  tone.  "Miss  Lee,  your  father 
has  asked  me  to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mr.  Lloyd — 
Enoch  Lloyd — and  I've  come  to  dine  with  you." 

Still  no  response  from  above,  but  now  the  foliage 
stirred  restlessly  and  a  flurry  of  blossoms  snowed  about 
him,  several  of  which  settled  on  his  head  and  shoulders, 
while  one  he  caught  in  air — a  petal  so  light  that  almost 
it  might  have  melted  in  his  palm.  The  touch  of  it 
seemed  to  quicken  impulse.  Impetuously  he  stepped 
to  the  trunk,  bold  for  ascent. 

At  this  the  leaves  overhead  rustled  in  great  commo- 
tion, and  a  voice,  suddenly  finding  itself,  cried,  breath- 
lessly, "No— don't!" 

He  hesitated;  then,  with  an  air  of  inexorable  resolve, 
reached  for  a  low  branch. 

"Don't!"  The  remonstrance  was  scarcely  audible 
now — almost  a  whisper;  part  of  the  rustle  of  the  leaves. 

He  paused  again,  and,  dividing  the  foliage  with  one 
hand,  scanned  the  upper  interstices.  But  nothing  defi- 

101 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

nite  was  yet  revealed ;  nothing,  that  is,  save —  He  strain- 
ed his  eyes.  What  was  it?  A  book?  Yes,  undoubtedly 
a  book,  clasped  closely  in  two  hands  which,  either  by 
chance  or  purpose,  concealed  the  title. 

He  smiled.  "Queer  fruit  this  tree  bears!  What, 
may  I  ask,  is  the  name  of  it?" 

She  made  sure  the  title  was  hidden.  Her  composure 
was  now  regained.  A  tactic  of  defence  against  his  siege 
had  suddenly  suggested  itself.  "It's  the  fruit  of  the 
Tree  of  Life,"  she  said,  "but  not  of  the  Tree  of  Knowl- 
edge." 

His  brow  clouded ;  the  answer  perplexed  him.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"That,  like  life,  it  is  filled  with  mystery;  that,  unlike 
knowledge,  it  yields  but  little  nourishment." 

Bewildered,  he  discarded  the  subject.  A  much  more 
enthralling  enigma  filled  his  mind.  With  fiery  impulse 
he  set  foot  in  a  knot-hole  of  the  trunk. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  quickly;  "it's  late;  I'm  coming 
down." 

Then,  for  the  first  time  obedient,  he  stepped  back  and 
stood  with  an  upraised  hand,  waiting  to  assist  her. 

"You'll  find  a  chair  on  the  veranda,"  she  told  him. 
"It  will  do  for  a  step-ladder." 

Eagerly  impatient,  he  hastened  to  the  house.  In  a 
moment — a  fateful  moment — the  chair  was  under  a  low 
branch  and  he  beside  it,  looking  up. 

But  now  the  leaves  and  blossoms,  swaying  over  their 
little  depths  of  shadow,  seemed  to  whisper  of  a  loss.  The 
foliage  no  longer  shrined  an  oracle.  Marion  had  gone! 

Enoch  looked  about  him  blankly.  The  ruse  nettled 
him,  and  to  be  nettled  was  to  be  uncomfortable.  With 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders — an  unaccustomed  gesture — 
he  joined  Mr.  Lee  in  the  garden. 

At  last  the  beloved  bulb  had  found  a  resting-place, 
and  the  publisher  appeared  well  satisfied  with  his  work. 

102 


The   Gentle   Philosopher 

Together  they  walked  towards  the  house. 

Lloyd  surveyed  the  Doric  columns  and  wistaria- vine. 

There  was  something  tranquillizing  in  the  stately  and 
cold  fafade  so  impressively  dominant  above  the  shore; 
something  that  exerted  a  sort  of  stoical  influence,  due, 
no  doubt,  to  its  Grecian  lines;  something  of  masterful 
serenity  in  its  aloofness  from  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of 
the  tide. 

Enoch  assumed  an  air  of  leisurely  calm.  "How  old 
is  the  house?"  he  asked.  "  In  model  it  harks  back  some 
two  thousand  years." 

Mr.  Lee  nodded.  "And  in  structure  as  many  hun- 
dred—  a  venerable  age  for  a  house  of  wood.  H-um! 
It's  queer  how  foreigners  scorn  our  relics.  They  should 
remember  that  everything  is  relative.  A  wooden  build- 
ing, as  old  as  this,  is  as  far  advanced,  in  proportion  to  its 
naturally  shorter  lease  of  life,  as  half  of  their  stone  re- 
mains. Well,  well;  we  none  of  us  understand  the  pro- 
portion of  things — the  relative  value."  The  little  old 
gentleman  halted  and  looked  about  him  with  a  moral- 
izing air,  as  one  who  glances  not  so  much  at  his  material 
surroundings  as  at  the  ever-manifest  yet  elusive  atmos- 
phere of  a  Personality  behind  them  all.  "I  tell  you, 
Lloyd,  there's  nothing  like  a  sense  of  proportion,  deli- 
cacy of  comparison,  ratiocination,  true  perspective." 
The  publisher  faced  his  protege  and  rested  a  hand  on  one 
of  the  broad  shoulders.  "For  example,  as  to  the  ques- 
tion of  failure,"  he  said,  with  cheerful  kindness,  "who 
can  see  the  thing  as  it  really  is?"  He  paused,  and,  feel- 
ing the  shoulder  shrug,  withdrew  his  hand.  "Who  says 
'fail'?"  he  demanded,  beamingly.  "Trite  as  it  may 
seem,  I  ask  myself  again  and  again  why  it  is  that  we 
make  mere  results  the  touchstone  for  all  decisions. 
U-um!  Don't  you  agree?" 

Lloyd  started.     "Er — yes,  yes." 

"Results!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Lee,  too  absorbed  in  his 
103 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

disquisition  to  notice  Enoch's  frequent  glances  at  the 
house.  "Results?  Why,  judging  by  present  results 
alone,  even  the  Creator  could  not  but  convict  Himself 
of  failure.  What  of  my  flowers  that  fade  in  the  bud? 
What  of  all  the  waste  and  accidents  of  nature?  Are 
these  failures?  Perhaps;  but  only  so  far  as  failure 
marks  the  universal  ongo  towards  success.  U-um! 
Don't  you  agree?" 

Lloyd  was  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  house.  Already 
this  detention  seemed  unbearable.  His  momentary 
sang-froid  forsook  him  utterly.  The  homily  of  his 
beneficent  patron  became  in  his  ears  an  incoherent 
mumble,  almost  a  bore.  Such  is  youth;  such  is  love; 
such  is  the  universal  ongo ! 

"Don't  you  agree?"  Mr.  Lee,  raising  his  impractical 
glasses,  held  them  wabbling  on  his  nose. 

Enoch  all  at  once  grew  deeply  interested.  ' '  Yes — yes, 
of  course." 

Mr.  Lee's  voice  fell  to  a  tone  of  low  earnestness. 
Clinching  one  hand,  he  pressed  it  against  the  palm  of  the 
other  in  a  gesture  of  emphasis  impossible  to  ignore.  "  I 
tell  you,  Lloyd,  a  man  in  the  minority  of  the  affirmative 
never  fails.  Only  the  negatives  of  life  are  failures. 
Like  zeros,  they  have  their  use  temporarily;  they  swell 
the  numbers  of  mankind.  But  is  it  not  probable  that 
when  at  last  the  problem  comes  to  a  solution  every  zero 
will  be  cancelled  and  only  the  digits — the  positive  quan- 
tities, the  essential  entities  of  life — remain?" 

Enoch's  eyes  fell.  "It  is  very  probable,"  he  said. 
Then  with  the  quick  animation  of  instinctive  contro- 
versy, "  And  what  do  you  think  will  be  the  sum  of  all 
those  numbers?" 

Mr.  Lee  straightened  his  glasses.     "U-um!     What?" 

Lloyd  smiled.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  the  sum  will  be 
One — just  One.  We  are  all  fractions.  Even  the  most 
positive  human  quantity  is  an  infinitesimal  fraction. 

104 


The   Gentle   Philosopher 

There  may  be  a  million  million  of  fractions  whose  sum 
is  one — just  one." 

"Pantheism,"  mused  Mr.  Lee,  in  mild  dismay — "evi- 
dent pantheism!  Do  you  really — " 

But  Lloyd  was  looking  again  at  the  Doric  columns, 
tuning  his  mind  ->s  best  he  could  to  their  lofty  calm. 

They  walked  on. 

"And  yet,"  observed  the  little  old  gentleman,  "you 
showed  nothing  of  this  in  The  Greatest  Good." 

"No.  I  think  I  have  somewhat  changed  recently  in 
my  belief."  His  glance  swerved  from  the  columns  to  a 
bright  spot  on  the  front  door.  It  was  the  knocker,  a 
small  eagle  done  in  brass.  "And  yet — "  He  glanced 
at  an  upper  window,  framed  by  a  wistaria- vine.  Then 
he  was  silent. 

The  publisher  smiled  to  himself  with  partial  compre- 
hension. This  beginner  at  life  interested  him  deeply. 
He  remembered  another  primary  scholar  confronting 
the  same  dilemmas.  Well,  the  new  generation  must,  of 
course,  assert  itself.  Here  was  a  youngster  apparently 
high  enough  above  the  average  to  become  a  leader  in  the 
natural  progression.  Stephen  Lee  put  it  simply.  His 
was  no  subtle  philosophy,  but  a  broad-minded  benevo- 
lence towards  younger  life.  Mellowly  he  recognized  the 
advantages  of  youth.  In  Lloyd  he  could  feel  the  glow 
of  an  exceptional  personality.  Mr.  Lee  had  been  inti- 
mate with  genius.  Thought  he  to  himself — being  par- 
tial to  analogy — "This  is  the  way  of  it:  The  physical 
embryo  in  a  few  short  months  profits  by  the  evolution 
of  the  ages,  redefining  in  each  successive  phase  a  procreal 
advance  in  the  race's  making,  until  at  the  end  the  indi- 
vidual is  born.  So  far,  so  good.  Now,  are  there  not 
at  infinitely  rarer  intervals  indications  of  a  psychal 
embryology  in  which  some  master  mind  runs  all  the 
gamut  of  human  opinion,  redefining  in  each  illusive 
phase  a  past  advance  in  the  spirit's  making,  until  at  the 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

end — then,  and  then  only;  then,  and  as  if  spontaneously 
— the  fire  of  genius  blazes  our  pathway  into  the  beyond?" 

He  recalled  this  interesting  hypothesis  at  present. 
But  young  men,  of  course,  must  not  be  flattered;  they 
must  be  warned.  "My  belief,"  he  allowed,  "may  be 
trite,  though  vital.  Do  you  object  to  a  truism  or  two? 
No?  Well,  perhaps  it's  not  a  platitude  to  one  so  young. 
Listen,  Lloyd.  The  progress  of  the  right  must  be  as- 
sured. The  right  is  life.  The  advance  of  life  must  be 
individually  maintained.  By  life  I  mean  all  that  is 
creative  in  existence,  all  that  furthers  the  true  develop- 
ment. This  is  the  universal  struggle.  As  in  the  mate- 
rial world  forces  upbuild  and  forces  destroy,  so  in  the 
psychical  realm  powers  work  life  and  death.  Lloyd,  it's 
this  life  that  rears  America.  It's  this  life  that  still  pre- 
dominates. Keep  it  predominant  in  you — the  spirit  of 
Western  civilization.  Beware  of  atrophy,  the  effete, 
the  decadent.  If  by  any  chance  it  ever  threatens  you, 
fight  it  like  a  disease.  Look  out  for  the  tearing-down 
process.  In  the  end,  of  course,  it  will  kill  your  body; 
the  tissues  must  go.  But  the  spirit  of  a  man  need  not — 
the  spirit  cannot  be  murdered.  Death  comes  to  it  only 
by  neglect  —  a  neglect  that  amounts  to  suicide.  At 
least,"  added  Mr.  Lee,  "this  is  my  way  of  thinking." 

For  all  his  little  homilies,  Stephen  Lee  was  perhaps  as 
unopinionated  and  tolerant  an  old  gentleman  as  ever 
lived.  Thanks  to  his  generous  humor,  and  possibly  to 
a  large  share  of  that  lovable  carelessness  so  often  con- 
sonant with  generosity,  he  could  never  condemn.  Life 
to  him,  except  for  the  old,  ever-whispering  sorrow,  had 
been,  as  he  said,  "a  pleasant  affair."  Besides,  he  was  a 
man  of  bulbs  and  shoots  and  seedlings — things  trouble- 
some, it  is  true,  yet  worth  the  trouble  and  conducive  to 
genial  tranquillity. 

Enoch  inclined  his  head  in  mute  agreement. 

"My  dear  Lloyd,"  concluded  the  publisher,  in  his  old- 
106 


The   Gentle    Philosopher 

fashioned  way,  as  they  reached  the  house,  "a  word,  if 
you'll  forgive  me;  before  I  forget.  (These  things  mean 
so  much  to  me.)  As  yet,  your  talent  is  as  fair  and  white 
as  the  heart  of  a  young  girl.  It  is,  so  to  speak,  your 
bride.  I  hope  you  will  protect  it  accordingly."  Step- 
ping up  to  the  veranda,  he  paused,  turned,  and  looked 
off  at  the  water.  "I've  seen  so  many,"  he  said,  as  if 
to  himself,  a  little  sadly,  "succumb  to  their  first  fail- 
ure." 

His  brow  cleared  suddenly  and  he  glanced  up  side- 
ways at  Enoch,  who  was  now  on  the  veranda  beside  him 
leaning  indolently  against  a  column.  "  But  why  should 
I  speak  so  to  you?  I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  misan- 
thrope. Come ;  you  must  see  the  house.  Do  you  know 
there's  a  British  bullet  in  the  library?" 

"A  British — " 

"Yes;  Revolutionary,  of  course.  It  came  through 
the  window  one  night  when  my  grandfather  was  reading 
aloud  from  the  Bible.  This  is  a  family  story,  furbished 
up,  no  doubt,  but  true  in  the  main.  'Live  in  peace,' 
read  my  grandfather,  imposingly,  when  suddenly  in 
whizzed  the  shot  and  embedded  itself  in  the  Bible.  They 
say  my  illustrious  grandfather  read  only  from  the  Old 
Testament  thereafter,  preferring  its  latitude  in  the  way 
of  vengeance  till  under  his  leadership  the  cause  of  such 
informalities  had  been  removed." 

"In  those  days,"  laughed  Enoch,  "they  took  the  bull 
by  the  horns."  He  glanced  back  at  the  bay  as  Mr.  Lee 
pushed  open  the  door. 

On  Mount  Hope  one  of  his  cottage  windows  flamed 
like  a  huge  burning-glass  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 
A  cloud,  cumulous  and  flesh-colored,  hung  heavy  above 
the  trees.  Lloyd's  glance  returned  to  the  near  shore. 
Already  it  was  fringed  with  shadows.  Whitely  distinct 
against  them  his  primitive  skiff  lazed  at  her  painter's 
length  from  the  low-lying  dock  of  stone.  Whitely  dis- 

107 


The   Triumph   of    Life 

tinct  another  craft,  yawl-rigged  and  birdlike,  lay  gun- 
wale to  gunwale  with  his  own. 

The  door  was  now  open.  Mr.  Lee,  with  polite  for- 
mality, stood  waiting  for  his  guest  to  enter  first. 

Lloyd  hesitated,  foot  on  threshold.  "Do  you  sail 
much?" 

"Now  and  then,  when  Marion  persuades  me." 

"Your  daughter  enjoys  sailing?" 

"  She  loves  it." 

Enoch  stepped  impatiently  into  the  hall.  "And— 
does  she  sail  the  boat  herself — alone  ?" 

Mr.  Lee  followed  him.  "Why,  what — "  There  had 
been  something  so  impetuous  in  the  question.  "Yes, 
often  alone — even  at  night." 


Taking   the   Bull   bij    the    Horns 

ENOCH  waited  in  the  library,  striving  to  muster 
patience  by  the  inspection  of  this  and  that. 
The  room  suggested  evening.  Melancholy,  yet  repose- 
ful, it  told  of  a  sterner  age.  Anything  garish  here  would 
have  seemed  a  sacrilege.  The  roof  of  the  veranda 
shielded  the  library  from  sunshine.  In  some  rooms,  as 
in  Marion's,  the  spirit  of  the  sun  appears  to  linger  after 
nightfall;  evening  is  but  an  interlude  between  lasting 
summer  days.  In  others,  as  in  this,  the  night  has  once 
and  for  always  come  to  its  own ;  the  low  light  of  a  lamp  is 
separate  and  little  suffusive;  effulgent  merely  in  a  patch. 
As  with  a  lantern  in  a  wood,  all  beyond  its  scope  is  dark. 
Who  can  express  the  tranquillity  of  these  retreats  ?  It  is 
definable  only  by  silences.  Here  the  darkness  is  a  gra- 
cious presence.  If  different  lights  have  different  influ- 
ences— the  sunshine  one,  the  candle  another;  lamps, 
electricity,  gas,  flashes  in  the  sky,  all  various  effects, 
making  moods — are  there  not  also  as  many  darknesses  ? 
The  question  suggests  a  fascinating  study  in  psychology. 
How  opposed  the  dark  of  a  tomb  and  of  open  night-time, 
of  a  lonely  bedroom  and  a  book-filled  library !  And  yet 
the  matter  of  light  and  shadow  is,  of  course,  primarily 
determined  in  ourselves;  it  is  causative  more  often  than 
resultant.  Even  the  darkness  of  a  tomb  may  be  invest- 
ed with  gracious  attributes. 

"her  beauty  makes 

This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light." 
109 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

That  which  is  loneliness  to  one  may  be  solitude  to  an- 
other. Day  and  night  speak  any  language. 

Enoch  lent  himself  to  the  room ;  listened  a  moment  to 
its  story. 

Under  his  gaze,  on  a  corner  table,  a  family  Bible — 
massive  monument  of  old  beliefs! — lay  open  at  the  page 
where  the  bullet  had  struck  it,  the  scorched  little  hole 
still  visible,  and,  deep  embedded,  the  lead  itself. 

Lloyd  looked  up  and  around  at  the  walls,  from  which 
the  low  ceiling  sagged  to  a  central  beam.  At  one  side  of 
the  room  long  lines  of  shelves — sagging,  too — supported 
a  heavy  burden  of  books,  brownish  for  the  most  part 
and  in  ponderous  sets. 

Enoch  crossed  the  room  and  glanced  at  the  titles. 
With  few  exceptions  they  meant  nothing  to  him.  What 
were  all  these  histories,  biographies,  theological  works, 
encyclopaedias,  cumbrous,  unheard-of  annuals?  They 
seemed  but  the  epitaphs  of  dead  philosophies.  They 
meant  no  more  than  the  numberless  grave-stones  in  some 
old  church-yard  through  which  a  stranger  passes  —  no 
more  and  yet  no  less ;  nothing  real,  and  yet  what  a  power- 
ful impression  of  solemnity,  of  sacred  melancholy,  in  all 
this  obsolescence;  what  majestic  sadness  in  this  old 
cemetery  of  thought  and  faith!  Even  now  the  books 
were  breathing  a  message.  Dim  in  their  mere  presence 
lay  written  a  poem  in  sombre  elegiacs,  pro  founder  per- 
haps than  aught  their  pages  might  contain.  Faith  is 
the  poetry  of  religion.  Ancient  faiths,  no  matter  how 
long  relinquished,  still  ring  on  in  beautiful  elegy,  each  a 
stanza  in  the  yet  unfinished  poem,  each  still  vaguely 
rhythmic  with  ourselves. 

Lloyd  turned  from  the  shelves  slowly  and  glanced  at 
one  end  of  the  room,  where  a  low  fireplace  of  brick,  sur- 
mounted by  a  shelf  and  looking-glass,  stretched  wide 
above  a  hearth-stone,  cracked  and  sunken.  Under  the 
mantel-shelf  hung  a  rusty  sword ;  over  the  mirror  an  oil- 

110 


Taking  the  Bull   by  the  Horns 

painting  that  portrayed  in  three-quarters  length  the 
weapon's  wearer.  He  was  a  short,  granite-visaged  man, 
in  the  uniform  of  a  Continental  officer.  His  face  be- 
spoke the  vigor  of  a  pioneer.  The  eyes  themselves  sug- 
gested weapons — weapons  of  defence,  never  aggressive 
yet  never  yielding.  Enoch  noticed  that  their  gaze  fol- 
lowed him ;  he  felt  their  scrutiny  as  though  it  blocked  his 
own.  There  must  have  been  a  vast  amount  of  reserve, 
of  proud  and  virile  seclusion,  in  this  patriarch  of  the  Lee 
family.  Surely  before  nothing  less  than  this  in  the  men 
of  his  time  would  the  aboriginal  Americans,  and  later 
the  English,  have  receded.  By  nothing  less  than  this  in 
his  descendants  could  circumstance — 

Lloyd  again  turned,  this  time  abruptly,  and  glanced 
up  at  the  opposite  wall.  There,  above  a  cabinet  of 
bric-a-brac,  blue  bowls,  teacups,  a  tureen,  and  various 
other  specimens  of  the  Chinese  art,  long  ago  brought 
overseas  to  the  port  of  Bristol,  hung  another  portrait. 
From  this  looked  down  a  little  old  gentleman,  much 
milder  and  gentler  looking  than  his  progenitor  of  the 
harder  days.  Where  the  soldier's  hand,  in  one  corner 
of  the  first  picture,  rested  on  a  sword-hilt,  the  hand  of 
this  quaint  person,  in  the  same  relative  position,  clasp- 
ed a  small,  dilapidated  volume,  leather-bound.  In  the 
hand  of  one  a  sword,  in  the  other's  grasp  a  book!  War, 
as  usual,  had  been  the  precursor  of  literature;  action 
the  ancestor  of  meditation.  And  yet,  had  not  some- 
thing been  lost  in  the  succession — something  of  stamina, 
invincibility,  and  force?  The  thought  and  philosophy 
that  had  gone  hand  in  hand  with  action,  as  suggested 
by  the  weighty  books,  were  now  bearing  fruit  in  the 
pursuit  of  gentler  letters.  Had  Stephen  Lee  carried  the 
ancestral  energy  into  these  pleasant  fields?  Lloyd  re- 
discovered a  truism.  Is  it  not  so,  he  meditated,  that 
peace  and  plenty  work  deterioration  on  any  race  and 
any  man  ?  No  matter  what  the  activity  in  the  arts  and 

in 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

industries,  is  it  not  essential  that  again  and  again  bar- 
barity must  return  to  reinvigorate  a  people  or  a  person, 
to  bring  them  or  him  back  for  a  draught  at  the  springs 
of  life  and  reassert  the  savage?  Lloyd  at  the  present 
moment  considered  his  own  generation  futile  in  com- 
parison with  its  predecessors.  Moodily  he  measured 
the  age  by  his  momentary  undervaluation  of  a  single 
individual,  and  that  individual  himself.  Childlike,  he 
allowed  his  moods  to  qualify  his  view  of  the  entire 
scheme.  Fate,  after  all,  is  a  kindly  old  nurse  that  we 
scrimmage  with  in  our  passions.  Lloyd's  was  the  self- 
exaggeration  of  the  undisciplined,  the  perfectly  natural 
egoism  of  a  child.  But  now  the  first  evidence  of  genu- 
ine self  -  consciousness,  superseding  the  long  subliminal 
contemplation,  showed  in  his  looks.  Something  seemed 
about  to  fade  from  his  eyes — a  light  that  had  hitherto 
bestowed  the  glamour  of  dreams  on  all  things. 

Once  more  he  glanced  up  at  the  old  soldier  enviously. 
If  circumstance  nowadays  would  only  take  the  form  of 
a  swift  and  comprehensive  bullet!  If  it  could  only  be 
met  by  the  simple  heroism  of  a  call  to  arms!  And  yet 
how  big  the  present  seemed!  Despite  the  bias  of  indi- 
vidual failure,  and  for  all  his  extravagance  in  staking  so 
much  on  the  moment's  hope,  Lloyd  felt  the  times  pul- 
sate within  him.  In  some  small  measure  he  conceived 
the  nation's  scope.  Had  it  not  already  broadened  the 
human  view;  is  it  not  in  the  end  to  liberate  mankind? 
Is  it  not  to  recast  humanity  in  the  old  heroic  mould,  or, 
better  still,  to  breed  a  race  of  infinitely  more  than  Olym- 
pian proportions?  Towards  this  each  nation  had  done 
its  share.  Was  it  not  perhaps  for  America — all  America, 
north,  south,  east,  west,  ultimately  corporate  from 
Greenland  to  Cape  Horn — to  complete  that  evolution? 
"The  shapes  arise" — shapes  of  the  empire  of  man;  far, 
dim  shapes  of  the  millennium.  The  gods  are  beaten  at 
their  own  game  —  Jupiter  by  the  harnessers  of  light- 

112 


Taking  the  Bull  by  the  Horns 

ning,  Vulcan  by  thousands  at  the  forges;  the  "stag-eyed 
queen"  and  all  that  old  gynaeocracy  by  our  own,  which 
is  far  more  potent ;  and,  last  but  greatest,  Stentor  himself 
by  the  modern  voice,  the  everywhere-audible  voice,  the 
voice  of  the  people !  Some  one  shall  express  this ;  some 
one  shall  sing  this !  Was  it  mad  of  Lloyd  to  predict  that 
in  the  very  end,  when  all  is  said  and  all  is  done,  and  all 
that  has  been  said  and  done  is  comprehended,  America 
may  breed  a  Homer  ?  Can  the  Revolution  ever  become 
a  myth,  the  Rebellion  an  epic  of  the  ancients?  It  must 
all  be  looked  back  to  —  looked  back  to  for  perhaps  a 
thousand  years,  or  ten  or  fifty  thousand — conceived  and 
born  spontaneously  in  a  nature.  That  nature  will  be 
America,  as  Homer  was  heroic  Greece.  But  can  it  be 
possible  that  its  epic  shall  sing  the  tragedy  of  an  Iliad? 

Lloyd  started.  Suddenly  these  wild  prophecies  were 
broken  by  the  sound  of  a  footstep,  or,  rather,  the  subtle 
influence  of  a  presence  in  the  room. 

Instinctively  he  glanced  down  from  the  martial  por- 
trait to  the  long  and  narrow  mirror  which,  from  its  posi- 
tion on  the  mantel  -  shelf ,  revealed  the  room.  Search- 
ing the  looking-glass,  he  stood  spellbound,  fearing  to 
move  or  breathe.  Dimly  reflected  he  saw  the  figure 
of  a  young  girl,  who,  having  entered  the  library  at  the 
far  end  behind  him,  apparently  followed  his  abstracted 
gaze  upward  and  was  now  herself  lost  for  a  moment  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  portrait's  face.  Evidently 
she  forgot  the  mirror,  and,  since  his  back  was  towards 
her,  thought  herself  unseen.  She  stood  there  uncon- 
sciously, almost  beyond  the  range  of  the  lamp-light,  her 
dark  dress  vague  in  the  shadows,  her  face  indefinitely 
revealed.  Above  the  brow  her  hair,  like  a  second  lamp 
in  the  large  interior,  seemed  to  cast  a  radiance  down- 
ward about  her  fea'ares,  as  though  luminous  in  itself. 
This  effect  of  lucency  was  heightened  in  her  upraised 
eyes. 

s  113 


The    Triumph    of   Life 

Lloyd  lost  himself  in  gazing. 

But  presently  a  subtle  intuition  seemed  to  trouble 
her,  and  her  glance  fell  to  the  looking-glass,  her  eyes 
met  his  own. 

He  turned  instantly,  intending  by  a  free  and  careless 
manner  to  carry  it  off  with  a  good  grace,  thus  to  save  her 
from  confusion. 

To  his  surprise  she  advanced  into  the  circle  of  lamp- 
light and  held  out  her  hand  no  less  easily  than  himself. 

The  tactic  told.  In  a  moment  he  was  awkward  with 
wondering.  Her  manner  and  bearing  as  she  greeted  him 
bespoke  a  perfect  candor  and  naturalness  that  dead- 
ened his  hope.  Her  clinging  black  dress,  cut  slightly 
low  at  the  neck,  seemed  to  emphasize  her  simplicity. 
For  an  instant  her  eyes,  clear  gray,  and  therefore  neutral 
mediums  of  expression,  suggested  as  he  touched  her 
hand  the  eyes  of  her  militant  ancestor,  strong  in  the  de- 
fence of  reserve.  In  the  next  moment,  when  a  smile 
lent  to  them  a  soft,  hazel  light,  they  seemed  to  deny 
even  the  inner  existence  of  the  slightest  apprehension. 
On  their  surface  he  read  gracious  but  formal  greet- 
ing; deeper  —  nothing!  And  yet  in  her  air  of  domin- 
ion, in  the  poise  of  her  head,  the  look  of  her  large  eyes, 
the  straight  sweep  of  her  figure  there  was  something 
that  recalled  his  thoughts  to  that  old  heroic  mould — 
something  eloquent  of  the  "stag-eyed  queen."  This, 
however,  was  a  fleeting  impression.  The  personal  ques- 
tion engrossed  him.  Was  she  his  visitor  of  the  night 
before?  He  could  not  be  sure.  Her  manner  baffled 
him.  It  betrayed  nothing  whatever  of  recognition  nor 
of  that  deep  comprehension  with  which  for  a  single 
moment  she  had  greeted  him  on  the  shore.  If  these 
were  the  eyes  that  had  answered  his  own,  these  the  lips 
that  had  breathed  encouragement,  hey  were  infinitely 
sensitive  to  expression.  It  had  worked  a  remarkable 
transformation.  Piqued,  he  began  to  de  reciate  her 

114 


Taking   the  Bull  bg  the  Horns 

charm;  told  himself  at  once  that  by  comparison  with 
the  "savior  of  his  hope"  she  was  as  prose  to  poetry,  as 
a  song  written  to  a  song  sung. 

All  these  were  the  muddled  impressions  of  his  first 
glance;  then  he  found  himself  listening  to  her  voice,  to 
the  mere  sound  and  quality  of  her  voice,  as  to  a  meaning 
utterance.  The  words,  of  course,  would  convey  nothing. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  she  began,  "for  vanishing  so; 
but  it  was  late,  and  I  felt  dishevelled." 

He  made  a  deprecatory  gesture,  dumbly  letting  the 
low  crystal  tone  sink  into  his  consciousness,  until  sud- 
denly his  face  went  bright  with  fervor,  as  though  he  had 
heard  a  familiar  melody.  When  she  had  spoken  from 
the  tree  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  open  air  had  frittered 
away  her  voice ;  but  here  the  tone  endured.  It  became 
interpretable.  Where  her  manner  and  even  her  eyes 
had  succeeded  in  disappointing  him,  this  voice  —  this 
lasting  voice — low,  liquid,  and  mellow  as  the  tone  of  a 
violin,  seemed  to  echo  her  greeting  of  the  shore. 

Their  talk  was  at  sixes  and  sevens,  she  persistent  in 
the  commonplace,  he  interjecting  minced  allusions  to 
the  night  before. 

Meantime  his  imagination  busied  itself  with  resetting 
the  scene  of  the  first  act.  Fancy  was  a  quick  scene- 
shifter  in  the  comedy.  It  conjured  up  the  deep  night- 
time out-of-doors ;  placed  a  moon  above  her ;  contrived  a 
stretch  of  water ;  summoned  again  in  thought  the  whole 
of  that  enchanting  vision  to  his  mind's  eye.  And  fancy 
superintended  the  stage  production.  It  arrayed  her 
again  in  white ;  read  into  her  eyes  a  deeper  look ;  lent  to 
her  voice  a  memory  of  other  words.  Fancy  was  prop- 
erty-man as  well.  It  laid  an  open  book  on  the  moonlit 
shore.  Fancy  was  call-boy  and  prompter  in  the  wings. 
It  hurried  the  leading  man  out  to  meet  the  leading  lady, 
whispered  a  line  in  his  ready  ear. 

The  spell  of  the  echo  was  at  its  height.  Carried  away 

"S 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

by  the  moment,  Enoch  was  for  blurting  out  a  point- 
blank  question,  for  insanely  forcing  the  issue  with  a 
word.  But,  alack  for  the  guilelessness  of  youth,  deep 
are  the  wilds  of  its  lunacy,  devious  the  stratagem  with 
which  it  works;  there  is  method  in  its  madness.  Lloyd 
longed  to  see  her  confused,  embarrassed  into  surrender. 
Basely  he  schemed  to  provoke  a  blush.  The  shot  must 
be  quick  and  unexpected — Parthian. 

He  spoke  suddenly.     "The  book  is  yours  and  mine." 

He  watched  the  mark.  Did  she  start  —  almost  im- 
perceptibly? Did  she  color — ever  so  little?  He  could 
not  be  sure.  The  blankly  questioning  way  in  which  she 
raised  her  eyebrows  was  a  masterly  defence.  It  sug- 
gested an  impregnable  nature. 

The  duel  by  this  so  occupied  their  attention  that 
neither  noticed  Mr.  Lee,  who,  having  entered  the  room 
at  the  far  end  near  the  fireplace,  was  now  for  the  thou- 
sandth time  surveying  his  grandsire's  sword  with  open 
admiration. 

Meanwhile  the  failure  of  Lloyd's  ruse  had  turned  that 
novice  bluntly  resolute.  He  cast  aside  his  foil  for  a 
bludgeon.  This  much  he  had  already  learned:  the 
primitive  way  is  best — with  women. 

He  stepped  closer,  bent  on  a  crude  attack,  and  now  at 
last  her  eyelids  fell.  "  Miss  Lee,  I  demand — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  musing  voice  of  the  pub- 
lisher, who  unluckily  at  this  moment  turned  from  his 
meditations  on  the  sword. 

"Yes,  yes,  Lloyd;  they  did  take  the  bull  by  the  horns 
in  those  days,  didn't  they? " 


XI 
Btj-tuaijs   of    Conoersation 

IN  the  dining-room  as  in  the  library,  that  true  colo- 
nial atmosphere,  now  so  rapidly  dying  of  imitation, 
was  preserved.  The  wall-paper,  in  faded  blue  and  white, 
presented  a  panorama  of  quaint  design.  Knights  and 
ladies  in  varied  scenes,  frequently  repeated,  were  en- 
acting a  scene  of  Arthurian  romance.  The  furniture, 
china,  and  plate,  all  inherited,  no  doubt,  from  the  wor- 
thy ancestor,  would  have  merited  description  years  ago. 
To-day  they  are  reproduced  by  the  thousand,  even  to 
worm-holes,  chips,  and  tarnish. 

The  man-servant,  however,  who  waited  on  the  three, 
would  not  have  been  easily  reproducible.  Tall,  thin, 
stiffly  respectable,  silent  and  funereal,  he  nevertheless, 
when  called  upon  by  his  master  or  his  young  mistress, 
even  for  the  slightest  service,  seemed  not  unmellow, 
thanks  to  his  devotion  and  long  fidelity.  The  look  of 
Timothy  was  the  look  of  an  old  watch-dog. 

For  a  time  the  conversation  ran  smoothly  enough, 
and  Lloyd,  as  though  granting  an  armistice,  lent  him- 
self to  the  quiet  charm  of  this  out-of-the-world  house- 
hold. 

Their  talk  was  of  many  things.  Beginning  with  con- 
ventionalities, they  soon  were  far  afield,  much  as  stroll- 
ers of  a  summer  afternoon  leave  narrow  streets  for  a 
ramble  in  the  country.  They  followed,  as  it  were,  the 
cool  and  winding  by-ways  of  conversation.  It  seemed  a 
safe  excursion,  for  if,  when  the  colloquy  lagged  and  they 

117 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

rested,  so  to  speak,  by  the  road-side,  Youth  was  all  for 
adventuring  into  the  woods  or  off  to  seek  encounter, 
there  sat  Age  to  restrain  the  hot-head.  Not  that  Mr. 
Lee  was  in  any  way  conscious  of  the  underlying  spell. 
His  verdancy  in  such  matters,  to  say  nothing  of  his  fre- 
quent wool-gathering,  offered  Enoch  an  opening  at  every 
turn.  But  this  very  innocence,  and  the  kindly  way  in 
which  he  took  it  for  granted  that  the  pair  were  deeply 
interested  in  horticultural  argument,  would  have  dis- 
armed a  Machiavelli. 

Marion,  too,  appeared  to  have  become  a  hopeless  en- 
thusiast in  botany,  so  assiduously  did  she  ply  her  father 
with  questions  as  to  the  classification  of  species  in  the 
Latin  tongue. 

Nevertheless,  the  subject  did  not  preclude  the  possi- 
bility of  a  battle  of  flowers,  a  short  and  pointed  sally 
over  the  head  of  Mr.  Lee.  Thus: 

Enoch.  "After  all,  nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  a 
water-lily." 

Marion  (coloring  vividly).  "  Do  you  think  so?" 

Enoch.  "  Except,  perhaps,  a  rose." 

Marion.  "  Well,  a  rose — " 

Enoch  (carelessly  significant).  "  For  instance,  a  Crim- 
son Rambler." 

Marion  (with  a  fliitter  of  her  lashes).  "  Yes,  but  father 
seems  to  have  a  preference  for  far  less  modest  flowers. 
Now,  the  coxcomb — " 

So  it  went,  as  it  always  goes  when  three's  a  crowd. 
Soon,  however,  the  presence  of  the  third  became  irk- 
some to  Enoch,  botany  a  bore.  But  since  for  mere 
politeness'  sake  he  must  wear  a  pleasant  face,  he  wore  it 
gay.  This  was  his  habit.  Before  any  obstacle,  philo- 
sophical or  circumstantial,  he  would  soon  lose  patience, 
and  mentally  go  dancing  off  to  fribble  and  dally  with 
life,  like  Donatello  in  the  sunshine.  The  trick  had  saved 
him  many  a  baffling  moment.  At  such  times  he  be- 

118 


Bg-toays    of   Conoersation 

came  mischievously  prankish,  ready -tongued.  Faun- 
like,  he  now,  as  it  were,  lay  in  hiding  to  surprise  a 
nymph. 

Opposite  Lloyd  a  wide  bow- window  of  large  panes  and 
swinging  sashes  faced  the  shore.  It  was  open,  and  the 
muslin  curtains  had  been  drawn  aside.  Nevertheless 
he  could  distinguish  nothing.  The  slope  and  water  had 
no  dividing  line.  It  was  lost  in  darkness.  Therefore, 
through  two  courses  of  that  simple  yet  memorable  re- 
past there  came  no  inspiration  from  without  to  nerve 
the  aggressor  into  action.  But,  presently,  up  over  the 
distant  shore-line  crept  a  meddler.  ,  Lloyd  stared.  The 
thing  was  so  red,  so  uncommonly  large,  and  to-night  the 
goblin  face  in  it  seemed  to  assume  an  unprecedented 
bulge. 

Enoch  smiled  as  if  he  had  been  winked  at,  something 
very  like  moonshine  gleaming  in  his  eyes.  Once  again 
he  was  scanning  the  enchanted  shore.  The  two  small 
boats,  now  visible  in  the  moonlight,  still  lay  touching 
each  other,  their  masts  pointing  skyward  like  silver 
spears. 

Lloyd  shot  a  look  at  Marion.  "Your  father  tells  me 
you  are  your  own  captain — even  at  night." 

"Yes,  my  own  captain — always." 

He  caught  her  meaning,  and  saw  Mr.  Lee  smile  indul- 
gently. 

"True,  very  true,"  said  that  innocent  father.  "I 
play  crew,  or  bo's'n,  or  something.  Now,  even  in  the 
matter  of  books — " 

Enoch  watched  her  face.  For  an  instant  he  thought 
her  eyes  were  striving  to  signal  to  the  bo's'n  at  the  wheel 
an  emphatic  "  Hard  a-lee!"  There  were  rocks  ahead,  and 
she  saw  them. 

Lloyd  took  a  hand  in  the  pilotage.  "In  the  matter 
of  books — ?"  he  persisted,  eagerly. 

Mr.  Lee,  bewildered  by  a  sort  of  whirlwind  that  seemed 
119 


The    Triumph    of   Life 

to  be  brewing  overhead,  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  pur- 
sue his  course.  The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled.  "Do  you 
know,  I  was  for  rejecting  that  book  of  yours,  but  Marion 
put  her  foot  down." 

Lloyd  bowed  low  to  his  fair  advocate.  Then  for  the 
first  time  her  glance  fell.  She  was  experiencing  an  un- 
precedented disquiet.  Do  what  she  would,  he  was 
wresting  the  secret  of  recognition  from  her  grasp.  How 
futile  to  have  changed  her  dress,  coiled  her  warm  hair 
high,  assumed  a  manner!  But  her  will  was  dauntless, 
and  the  more  circumstances  seemed  to  thwart  it  the 
more  her  innate  pride  of  spiritual  seclusion  rebelled 
against  discovery. 

As  a  last  resort  she  became  flippant  and  ironical. 
"The  book  is  beautifully  printed,"  she  said,  and  her 
father  glanced  up  from  his  Madeira.  Would  he  ever 
understand  the  character  that  lay  behind  those  changing 
eyes?  Her  mother  had  never  been  so,  and  as  for  him- 
self— well,  he  was  struggling  bravely  enough  even  now 
against  the  inundation  of  commercialism  and  new  meth- 
ods. But  he  was  losing  his  grip  on  business  and  on  life. 
No;  her  fibre  must  be  woven  of  older  stuff  —  on  the 
same  loom  as  that  of  his  grandfather.  At  first  her  new 
irony  seemed  to  him  a  mood  the  most  enigmatical  and 
least  worthy  of  her  he  had  known;  but  when  he  looked 
up  in  surprise  he  felt  instinctively  that  Marion  must 
have  her  way,  and  returned  to  his  wine  of  the  by-gone 
period  he  comprehended. 

Lloyd  was  no  longer  watching  her.  He  feared  the 
present  lightness  of  her  glance.  Nevertheless,  he  flash- 
ed ahead.  "Fortunately,  you  approved  of  the  author's 
work  as  well  as  the  compositor's." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  you  leave  one  famished  at  the  end." 

Instantly  he  forgot  her  and  all  things  save  the  sub- 
ject. For  a  moment  his  work  became  paramount  again. 
The  moonshine  was  obscured  by  shadows.  "Those  who 

120 


By-toags    of   Conversation 

seek  the  greatest  good  must  be  brought  to  feel  that  des- 
perate need." 

"And  offered  nothing?" 

"There  is  little  to  offer.     It  is  in  themselves." 

His  eyes  were  deep  in  hers  for  a  single  instant.  She 
could  scarcely  withstand  their  penetration. 

He  always  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him. 

At  the  centre  of  the  table  stood  a  low,  silver  candela- 
brum, an  infinitely  gentle  and  effulgent  light  circling  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  its  branches. 

Marion's  face,  above  the  level  of  the  radiance,  and 
hooded  in  the  shadows  of  the  .surrounding  gloom, 
seemed  to  him  in  that  moment  like  the  face  of  a  sacred 
picture  above  the  candles  of  an  old-world  shrine.  Had 
he  not  seen  it  in  one  of  the  dim-lit  chapels  of  a  vast 
cathedral — a  telling  yet  illusive  face;  a  face  intended, 
no  doubt,  for  the  Madonna,  but  in  reality  Venetian,  and 
passionately  fair?  In  spite  of  the  hallowing  radiance, 
in  spite  of  the  nimbus  above  her  brow,  this  was  a  face 
possessed  of  a  human  sovereignty,  a  deep  though  as  yet 
a  latent  capacity  for  all  the  stress  and  strength  and  ful- 
ness of  woman's  love. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  slowly;  "the  need  is  in  them- 
selves." 

There  was  something  so  earnest  in  her  voice,  some- 
thing so  deeply  simple  in  her  eyes,  that  all  at  once  the 
god  in  Enoch  began  to  despise  the  cub.  He  longed  to  be 
alone  with  her,  to  talk  without  the  necessity  of  inter- 
larding hints  and  resorting  to  the  tricky  turns  of  a 
double  conversation.  It  seemed  only  congruous  that 
she  should  be  approached  through  the  loftier  and  more 
clarified  atmosphere  of  her  own  nature ;  almost  essential 
that  the  flame  within  him  should  leap  to  the  hidden  fire 
in  herself.  This  is  the  pyromancy  of  love.  Rapidly 
her  personality  exalted  him,  until  at  a  single  bound  he 
was  for  naming  to  himself  the  power  of  her  attraction. 

121 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

Rash  as  ever,  he  called  it  love.  If  only  he  could  take  her 
away  with  him  into  the  night  again,  away  from  custom, 
and  there  give  himself  free  rein,  every  pent-up  thought 
its  liberty ! 

Thus  and  so,  bridled  and  chafing,  he  champed  the 
bit  of  convention,  impatient  for  his  maiden  race,  hot  for 
the  freedom  and  dash  of  an  unrestrainable  wooing. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  the  sight  of  that  moon-metamor- 
phosed shore;  perhaps  it  was  the  present  restraint  that 
carried  him  away  or  the  mere  surprise  and  glamour  of 
a  first  enchantment.  He  made  no  attempt  to  define  it; 
reason  was  thrown  to  the  winds. 

Moodily  towards  the  end  of  the  dinner  he  sat  heedless 
of  the  conversation,  answered  "yes"  for  "no"  and  vice 
versa,  till  the  talk  was  topsy-turvy,  and  Mr.  Lee,  now 
and  then  raising  his  impractical  glasses  to  one  and  the 
other  bewilderedly,  might  as  well  have  been  teaching 
botany  to  the  moon.  Even  Marion  herself  seemed  to 
catch  the  strange  aphasia.  Where  strategy  had  failed 
to  disconcert  her,  this  open  insanity  began  to  tell.  She 
was  on  tenter-hooks  for  fear  he  would  betray  himself,  and 
yet,  underneath  it  all,  fascinated  by  that  very  hazard. 

"  I  shall  plant,"  observed  Mr.  Lee,  "a  row  of  coreopsis 
under  the  dim'ng-room  windows." 

Murmurs  of  approval. 

"  Or  how  would  a  line  of  cannas  do?" 

"Splendidly." 

"On  the  other  hand,  cosmos — " 

"Yes,  cosmos;  decide  on  that." 

"Perhaps  we'd  better,  and  then  I  can  put  the  coreop- 
sis—  "  He  paused  to  consider  the  question. 

"Yes,"  said  Lloyd. 

Mr.  Lee  gazed  at  him  abstractedly.     "What?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  I  was  only  thinking  that — er — the 
water-lilies — " 

"Water-lilies?" 

122 


o£   Conversation 

"  I  mean,  the  cosmos  might  look  better — under  the 
dining-room  windows." 

Marion  nodded.     "  I  think  Mr.  Lloyd  is  right." 

"Of  course,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Lee,  "but  why  in  the 
world —  Well,  didn't  you  know  we  had  just  decided 
the  matter?  You  seem  to  be  losing  your  interest  in 
my  flowers." 

"No,  no,  father!" 

"Well,  how  about  the  coreopsis,  then?  I  wonder  if 
it  would  not — ' ' 

"No,"  echoed  Lloyd. 

Mr.  Lee  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  vague  restlessness. 
Something  disquieting  was  afoot,  something  troublesome. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon;  what  did  you  say?" 

Enoch  coughed. 

"Mr.  Lloyd  was  saying,"  interposed  Marion,  "that  he 
had  not  lost  his  interest  in  your  flowers." 

"H-um!"  exclaimed  the  little  old  gentleman,  begin- 
ning to  grow  testy.  "I  didn't  know  he  ever  had  any." 
Whereupon,  frowning  in  bewilderment  at  the  table- 
cloth, he  fell  to  a  deep  abstraction.  Every  period  has  its 
refuge.  With  youth  it  is  the  glittering  surface,  with  age 
the  haze  of  generalities. 

Marion  looked  upbraidingly  at  Enoch;  Enoch  ruefully 
at  the  moon. 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  nothing  is  plausible 
and  nothing  should  be.  Silence,  with  an  eternal  separa- 
tion of  glances,  is  the  only  safe  retreat.  If  in  two  min- 
utes the  eternity  is  past  and  gaze  creeps  round  to  gaze 
again,  trouble  brews  to  overflowing.  That  second  meet- 
ing of  the  eyes  is  far  more  fatal  than  the  first.  Some- 
thing mutual  is  behind  it. 

Lloyd  sighed.  It  was  taking  Mr.  Lee  years  to  eat  a 
banana.  He  seemed  to  delight  in  mouthfuls  that  would 
have  piqued  the  hunger  of  a  bird,  and  between  each  mor- 
sel there  evidently  lay  an  entire  system  of  philosophy. 

123 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

Then  at  last  the  Fates  relented. 

A  tall  figure  crossed  before  the  open  window.  They 
heard  a  footstep  on  the  veranda.  The  brass  eagle  of  the 
front  door  fell  with  a  rap. 

Mr.  Lee  shifted  uneasily  and  drew  himself  together,  as 
though  summoning  the  strength  of  his  prime  for  an  un- 
pleasant encounter.  "  I  can  guess  who  it  is." 

Marion  looked  indignant.     "  Surely  he  has  not — " 

"Yes,  I  knew  he  would  come  to  spoil  my  summer 
holiday." 

The  sound  of  a  voice  reached  them  from  the  hall.  In 
a  moment  Timothy  entered  to  announce  the  visitor. 
Evidently  the  personality  of  this  guest  had  antagonized 
him.  He  scowled.  Years  of  loyal  service  had  taught 
him  a  just  discrimination.  Moreover,  his  faithful  and 
taciturn  allegiance  had  long  ago  won  him  the  family  con- 
fidence, a  trust  that  consisted  of  unrestrained  conversa- 
tion between  father  and  daughter  in  the  dining-room. 

He  scowled,  and  something  harsh  in  his  tone  as  he 
spoke  the  name  suggested  a  menace  from  the  old  watch- 
dog. 

"Mr.  Matthew  Steele." 


XII 
A  Knight  of   the   Moon    Rampant 

MR.  LEE  rose  from  the  table  wearily.  "On  from 
New  York  to  ruin  my  holiday ;  but  perhaps  it's  just 
as  well." 

"Matthew  Steele?"  repeated  Lloyd.  "Is  he  the  pub- 
lisher of — " 

"Trash,"  replied  Mr.  Lee;  "only  trash  hammered  out 
by  hacks,  popular  in  the  kitchen." 

At  this  they  heard  a  low  cough  of  remonstrance  from 
the  antiquated  retainer,  who  straightway  left  the  room. 
Mr.  Lee  glanced  after  him  in  surprise;  but  Marion  laugh- 
ed. "  Timothy  resented  the  implication.  You  spoke  of 
Steele  as  popular  in  the  kitchen." 

Instantly  the  situation  changed.  Mr.  Lee  chuckled. 
Humor,  with  him,  was  the  little  leaven  that  leavened  his 
whole  existence.  His  eyes,  a  moment  before  dejected, 
now  twinkled  with  satisfaction.  "Not  in  our  kitchen. 
Oh,  never!  I  owe  the  old  stand-by  an  apology."  Mr. 
Lee  straightened  himself.  "Well,  I  must  be  going." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  has  come  to  make  an  offer?" 
asked  Marion. 

"Of  course  he  has.  Imagine  it!"  The  publisher 
turned  to  Lloyd,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  fingers  were 
fumbling  one  another  under  his  coat-tails.  "Imagine 
it!"  The  coat-tails  napped  emphatically.  "He  dares 
to  hope  he  may  gain  control  of  my  business.  Think  of 
the  respectable  firm  of  Stephen  Lee  and  Company  at  the 
mercy  of  such  a  man!"  The  tails  fell  flat,  and  Mr.  Lee's 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

chubby  hands,  breaking  from  under,  made  a  gesture  of 
expostulation. 

"  Preposterous!"  exclaimed  Enoch. 

"Yes,  it  is  certainly  preposterous — ludicrous!  But  I 
hope  he  does  make  an  offer  out  and  out.  Then  he  shall 
have  my  answer."  With  which  Stephen  Lee,  gallantly 
nerving  himself,  started  for  the  door. 

"Father,"  said  Marion,  "be  careful!"  But  the  little 
old  gentleman,  preoccupied  in  the  mustering  of  self- 
reliance,  walked  out  heedlessly  to  the  field  of  battle. 

"He  is  so  absent-minded,"  mused  the  girl,  "that 
nowadays  I  fear  they  often  get  the  best  of  him." 

Lloyd  made  no  response.  The  fact  that  they  two  were 
again  alone  obscured  unselfish  considerations. 

They  were  again  alone,  and  yet  his  tongue  was  tied. 
The  intrusion  of  disquietude  on  her  father's  account  had 
taken  her  so  far  away. 

The  silence  grew  difficult. 

Enoch  surveyed  a  scene  from  the  Arthurian  legend 
enacted  on  the  wall-paper.  A  hand  and  sword  were  ris- 
ing from  the  centre  of  a  cobalt  lake.  On  the  verge  stood 
the  king  and  gazed  at  the  enchanted  weapon. 

"From  this  spirit  of  the  water,"  observed  Lloyd, 
"the  man  gained  a  power  with  which  to  shape  his  des- 
tiny." 

Marion  glanced  at  the  blue  figures.  "True,  but  the 
mystery  of  that  spirit  he  never  fathomed.  Come,  shall 
we  go  out  on  the  veranda?  It's  pleasanter  on  warm 
evenings." 

She  led  the  way  from  the  dining-room,  and  soon  was 
seated  in  a  hammock  near  the  veranda's  step,  Lloyd-on 
the  step  itself. 

Through  the  open  window  of  the  library  came  the 
sound  of  two  voices,  one  tremulous,  with  an  occasional 
note  of  apprehension  or  querulousness,  the  other  metal- 
lically hard.  From  without  came  other  voices — the  tide's 

126 


A   Knight   of  the  Moon   Rampant 

murmur,  the  pine-trees'  sigh,  the  locusts'  intermittent 
wheezing,  and  occasional  plaints  from  a  solitary  owl. 
The  moon  rode  just  above  the  orchard,  whose  trunks  and 
branches  threw  gnarled  shadows  in  the  dog-grass,  while 
near  in  the  foreground  glistened  conspicuous  the  blos- 
somy  chaplet  of  Pan. 

Lloyd  looked  hammockward.  "  It  is  hardly  fair,"  he 
ventured;  "you  are  in  the  darkness,  whereas  I — ' 

The  hammock  began  to  swing  gently.  "  Oh,  I  thought 
ycu  were  in  the  dark,  whereas  I — " 

He  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  " In  one  sense,  yes;  I 
am  in  the  dark."  His  eyes  darted  through  the  obscurity 
in  search  of  her  own  and  found  them.  "In  the  dark 
save  for  two  stars — " 

The  hammock  rocked  faster. 

He  persisted.  "Save  for  two  stars — "  He  paused; 
then  quickly,  "What  wouldn't  I  give  for  the  immediate 
services  of  an  astrologer!" 

Faster  still  the  hammock. 

He  flashed  ahead.  "  An  astrologer  who  could  read,  in 
those  twin  stars,  my  horoscope." 

The  hammock  stopped.  "Medifeval!"  breathed  its 
occupant.  Leaning  forward,  she  began  to  study,  with 
naive  self-forgetfulness,  this  creature  of  her  new  world. 
The  movement  brought  her  out  of  the  shade.  He  saw 
her  features,  saw  the  glow  of  her  hair  warming  the 
moonlight  it  reflected.  Her  eyebrows  frowned,  but  the 
lights  under  them  were  sparkling.  "That's  the  way 
the  knight  of  the  wall-paper  would  talk. "  She  touched 
the  floor  with  one  foot,  so  to  set  the  hammock  a-swing 
again.  "But  the  knight  of  the  wall-paper,"  she  airily 
added,  "says  nothing  at  all;  he  knows  better." 

Lloyd  looked  off  across  the  water,  and,  as  if  with 
harmless  innocence,  flitted  from  the  subject.  "Scarce- 
ly a  breath  of  a  breeze,  is  there?" 

"Scarcely." 

127 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"I  sha'n't  be  able  to  go  home  in  the  boat — do  you 
think  so?" 

"Not  without  rowing." 

"  It  was  different  last  night." 

"Yes." 

"  But  rather  dark  for  sailing  before  the  moon  rose. 

"Rather." 

"Yet  I  suppose  you  know  your  way  about  the  bay  by 
instinct.  The  darkness  didn't  matter." 

"  Not  much." 

"  Oh,  then  you  did  sail  last  night?" 

It  was  a  stroke  so  telling  that  there  came  no  answer. 
Her  foot  was  thrust  out  at  the  floor  of  the  veranda  al- 
most viciously,  and  the  hammock  rocked  like  a  sailor's 
in  a  storm. 

The  violence  of  its  motion  seemed  to  affect  Lloyd. 
Some  inner  mainstay  was  carried  away  by  the  tempest 
of  the  moment.  He  grew  lawless,  rash,  piratical.  He 
stood  up.  Grasping  one  end  of  the  hammock,  he  bent 
over  her  with  passionate  intensity.  "Tell  me — tell  me; 
was  it  you?  I  know  it  was,  but  say  so.  Say  it  was  you 
who  came  to  me  on  the  shore,  came  to  me  as  though— 
as  though  you  alone  in  all  the  world  understood  me; 
came  when  I  felt  desperate  with  failure.  In  an  instant 
I  was  not  desperate ;  I  had  not  failed.  I  had  succeeded ! 
Your  eyes  told  me  I  had  succeeded."  He  bent  closer, 
clinching  the  cords  of  the  hammock  in  a  tense  grip. 
"Tell  me!  Yes,  you  will."  His  eyes  flashed;  his  breath 
quickened.  "You  shall!" 

In  the  next  moment  he  could  have  bitten  his  tongue 
off  for  that  command. 

She  said  nothing  at  first.  To  his  surprise,  she  only 
rose  slowly,  and,  going  to  the  veranda's  edge,  stood 
there,  tense,  quick-breathing,  palpitant. 

He  stepped  down  to  the  grass,  and,  looking  up  at  her, 
seemed  to  be  willing  her  away — shorewards. 

128 


A  Knight   of  the   Moon   Rampant 

To  him  in  that  moment  she  was  inscrutable — a  goddess 
without  a  name,  and  yet  a  hundred  names;  a  fate,  an 
oracle.  The  mere  sight  of  her  took  him  to  larger 
spheres,  calmed  him  with  something  of  the  same  lofty 
quiescence  inspired  by  the  Grecian  column  near  which 
she  stood;  with  something,  in  fact,  that  hitherto  had 
seemed  peculiar  to  the  House  of  Dreams — perfect  in  out- 
line, majestic  in  simplicity. 

Her  figure  spoke.  The  music  of  its  lines  enthralled 
him ;  and  over  them  her  hair — the  vivid  flame  of  her  hair, 
hot  in  the  pallid  moonlight.  He  could  see  her  profile — 
the  high  brow;  the  straight  nose;  the  crimson  lips,  now 
parted  in  agitated  breathing;  the  chin  and  its  under- 
shadows;  could  see  her  bosom  rise  and  fall  quickly,  the 
dark  bodice  in  definite  relief  against  the  column;  could 
see  all  this,  and  feel  yet  more,  while  she  stood  there  on  the 
edge  of  the  veranda,  her  nature  speaking  in  a  silence. 
Nevertheless,  he  could  not  know  that  to  her  the  edge  was 
the  verge  of  a  new  world,  the  unexplored  country  of  which 
his  book  had  hinted — the  Land  of  the  Things  that  Are! 

For  a  moment  the  impulse  was  strong  in  her  to  step 
down  and  follow  him,  and  after  that  to  wander  a  little  by 
his  side,  to  stroll  in  the  orchard  .  .  .  down  the  lane  .  .  . 
along  the  shore  .  .  .  anywhere  .  .  .  with  him!  But  second 
thoughts  prevailed.  A  lurking  spirit  of  reserve,  a  wom- 
an's primeval  instinct  of  escape,  elemental  love  of  pri- 
vacy, a  rebellion  against  his  masculine  "you  shall" — 
all  this  constrained  her  from  him. 

She  turned  and  started  for  the  door.  Instead  of  ad- 
venture in  the  Land  of  the  Things  that  Are,  she  would 
seek  refuge  in  the  House  of  Dreams. 

Whether  or  not  the  purpose  of  flight  would  have  awak- 
ened in  Lloyd  a  man's  primeval  instinct  of  pursuit,  and 
what  would  have  come  of  it,  who  knows?  Alas  for  the 
liberty  of  the  Arcadians,  the  impulses  of  both  were 
nipped  in  the  bud.  Youth  was  pulled  again  at  the  post 
9  129 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

— the  post  of  his  maiden  race.  Age  stood  full  in  the 
course — or,  in  material  terms,  the  doorway.  Mr.  Stephen 
Lee  appeared  before  them. 

The  very  atmosphere  throbbed. 

Mr.  Lee  hesitated  on  the  threshold,  wondering.  Things 
that  he  never  noticed  he  often  felt.  Absent  of  mind  by 
habit,  and  at  present  concerned  with  sundry  emotions 
of  his  own,  he  nevertheless,  as  is  the  way  of  many  wool- 
gatherers,  surmised  by  intuition  that  which  he  would 
never  have  detected  by  observation. 

Enoch  assumed  a  careless  air,  and,  turning  away  with 
a  far-off  look,  appeared  to  become  deeply  interested  in 
the  look  of  apple-blossoms  by  moonlight.  He  strolled 
towards  the  orchard. 

Marion  flushed  hot  and  hotter  in  the  darkness. 

The  shadows  teemed  with  guilty  innocence. 

She  spoke.  "Oh,  father,  I  was  troubled  about  you." 
She  breathed  hard.  "I  was  coming  in  to  see — "  She 
broke  off  abruptly.  What  had  she  said?  The  words 
were  deceitful.  Spontaneously  she  had  attributed  her 
agitation  to  a  foreign  cause.  Impossible!  Always  any- 
thing underhand  and  concealed,  anything  uncandid,  had 
been  revolting  to  her.  In  the  simple  code  she  had  ever 
followed,  deceit  was  the  chief  of  crimes.  Truthfulness  had 
been  nothing  to  be  sought  for,  nothing  to  be  acquired, 
nothing  praiseworthy;  it  had  been  merely  a  part — an 
inherent  part — of  herself.  And  now — what  had  come 
over  her?  What  had  she  said?  To  her  father,  above 
all!  A  thousand  little  pin-points  of  remorse  began  all 
at  once  to  prick  her.  She  realized  that  she  had  entirely 
forgotten  her  father  and  his  interview.  She  had  been 
so  tmdutiful  that  merely  by  the  influence  of  a  new 
friend  she  had  been  led  to  ignore  her  father's  trouble, 
and  at  last,  in  order  to  save  herself  from  an  embarrassing 
situation,  had  quibbled  with  the  truth. 

Mr.  Lee  took  her  hand.  His  voice  trembled.  Her 

130 


A   Knight   of  the   Moon    Rampant 

agitation  soothed  his  ruffled  spirits  like  a  balm.  What- 
ever that  man  Steele  there  in  the  library  had  said  and 
done,  here  was  one  who  by  her  girlish  anxiety  had  al- 
ready healed  the  sting.  How  her  breast  heaved!  How 
she  seemed  to  vibrate  with  feeling  for  him!  How  sweet- 
ly her  eyes,  catching  the  light  of  the  windows,  grew  moist 
with  daughterly  concern!  "My  Marion!"  was  all  he 
could  say.  "Maid  Marion!" 

She  turned  uneasily  and  glanced  at  Enoch,  who  was 
now  an  impalpable  figure  of  moon  -  stuff  and  shadow. 
Then  again  she  faced  her  father  and  her  lashes  drooped. 
Grasping  one  of  his  hands  in  hers,  she  drew  it  up,  fond- 
ling it,  with  which,  to  his  surprise,  "No,  no,"  she  whis- 
pered; "no,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you!  Forgive  me." 
She  stood  back  erect,  like  one  who  has  thrown  aside  a 
momentary  burden.  "  It  was  something  else." 

At  first  Stephen  Lee  said  nothing.  Vaguely  he  under- 
stood; realized  that  changes  were  in  the  air  —  a  new 
order — disquietude.  Why  and  how,  what  and  wherein, 
he  was  never  given  to  asking.  Everything  natural  he 
took  for  granted.  Given  a  youth,  given  a  maid,  given  a 
book  in  which  she  learns  to  know  him,  a  moonlight  night 
in  which  he  feels  her  eyes,  and  what  more  natural  than  a 
boy  who  strolls  away,  a  girl  whose  breast  is  heaving? 
Moonshine  it  might  be,  nothing  more;  only  an  illusory 
idyl  o'f  the  moment.  And  as  for  the  slight,  the  first 
neglect,  the  instinctive  swerve  of  the  filial,  was  it  not  all 
in  accord  with  the  most  beautiful  cruelty  of  nature? 
The  unselfish  heart  of  Mr.  Lee  ignored  old  proverbs  and 
similes — bitter  similes  anent  the  inevitable  flight  of  off- 
spring. Or  if  down  deep  for  an  instant  he  felt  a  lack,  a 
wrench,  the  first  pang  of  a  parent's  loneliness,  he  routed 
that  feeling  without  a  word.  The  sense  of  cruelty  was 
hidden;  the  sense  of  beauty  glossed  it  over.  Mr.  Lee 
dwelt  on  the  seemliness  of  the  case,  harbored  a  pleas- 
anter  metaphor,  thought  of  his  flowers,  their  bourgen- 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

ing;  dwelt,  too,  on  the  naturalness  of  it,  the  universality, 
and  humbly  denied  himself  a  protest. 

All  this  in  a  moment,  while,  either  from  forgetfulness 
or  purpose,  he  neglected  at  first  to  reassure  her  of  his 
leniency. 

Suddenly  he  passed  her  with  a  brisk  step  and  glanced 
about  for  Enoch. 

The  culprit,  aloof  at  a  gate  on  the  lane-side,  was 
frowning  skyward  at  the  unmanageable  universe. 

"Lloyd!" 

"Father,  surely  you  won't — " 

But  Enoch,  having  turned  his  back  upon  the  universe, 
was  already  within  ear-shot. 

Marion  saw  breakers  ahead.  She  knew  her  father. 
Doubtless  he  would  indulge  in  kindly  but  firm  remon- 
strance, the  amiability  of  which  a  youth  fresh  from 
frowning  at  the  universe  would  scarcely  pause  to  imi- 
tate or  admire.  Whereafter  they  would  set  to  brewing 
a  tempest  in  the  proverbial  teapot,  a  fiery  concoction  in 
the  illicit  still  of  temper.  It  never  occurred  to  Marion 
that  she  personally  need  not  share  the  unpleasantness 
of  the  prospective  outbreak.  Her  first  feeling  of  em- 
barrassed apprehension  and  her  fleeting  wish  to  with- 
draw from  the  scene  were  instantaneously  overcome  by  a 
peculiarly  complex  emotion,  a  sense  of  guardianship,  an 
instinct  of  loyalty  towards — which?  The  question  dis- 
turbed her.  Why  was  she  waiting  while  the  offender 
returned  with  hesitant  step?  Had  it  come  to  this:  that 
in  the  event  of  an  altercation  between  her  father  and 
Enoch  Lloyd  her  position  already  would  be  neutral? 
Could  it  even  be — no,  perish  the  thought!  She  flouted 
a  worse  misgiving.  But  there  is  no  neutrality  in  woman. 
Marion,  at  heart,  was  taking  sides.  In  spite  of  itself  your 
Heart  o'  Love  is  a  turncoat.  It  deserts  the  camp  of  its 
fathers.  Where,  now,  are  the  faded  banners,  the  dusty 
and  gray  old  standards  by  which  it  has  been  led  ?  Time 

132 


A   Knight    of   the   Moon    Rampant 

was  when  they  meant  security  and  safe  protection.  Time 
is  when  they  flap  deserted  and  meaningless  save  as  pa- 
thetic emblems  of  an  outgrown  cause. 

Who  pitches  his  tent  before  the  old  one?  Who  dares? 
What  leader  is  this  approaching?  A  youth?  Ay  so, 
for  a  god  is  youthful.  A  youth?  Yes,  for  the  flag  he 
flies  is  the  evening  sky,  the  silver  sky,  and  the  device  of 
the  flag  is  a  moon  rampant !  Who  but  a  god  can  wave 
the  heavens?  Who  but  a  youth?  To  him!  To  him, 
Heart  o'  Love!  Hie  on!  Go  out  to  the  wooer  militant! 
Quick,  through  the  lines,  and  away!  Old  affections  can- 
not picket  you  from  love.  This  alone  is  fair  in  love 
that's  not  in  war:  you  may  desert  with  flying  colors;  you 
may  greet  the  flag  of  the  moon  with  your  own  of  the 
two  twin  stars;  you  may  play  the  turncoat  proudly! 
Nevertheless,  later  on  —  remember!  Once  again  look 
back.  Somewhere  in  the  valley  behind  you  flaps  the 
cast-off  flag  on  a  lonely  pole.  Perhaps  the  last  shred 
of  your  earliest  sacred  emblem  is  being  furled. 

Marion  touched  ner  father's  hand.  Her  eyes,  under 
lowered  lashes,  greeted  Lloyd's.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  then  that  her  sky-bearer  had,  in  the  moment  of  Mr. 
Lee's  appearance,  sauntered  away  from  the  difficulty 
and  left  her  to  bear  its  brunt.  His  withdrawal  but 
proved  the  delicacy  of  his  nature.  Your  Knight  of  the 
Moon  Rampant  is  also  a  "  parfit  gentil  knight " ;  he  is,  in 
fact,  nor  more  nor  less  than  the  image  of  the  spirit  of  the 
maiden  who  with  a  look  bestows  upon  him  his  accolade. 

Since  his  call  to  Enoch,  Mr.  Lee  had  maintained  an 
ominous  silence.  This,  together  with  frequent  blinks  and 
scowls,  had  effectually  counteracted  the  appreciative 
twinkle  of  his  eye.  Covertly  he  enjoyed  the  situation. 
He  had  put  the  pair  in  a  feaze.  It  served  them  right 
to  be  on  tenter-hooks  a  moment.  There  is  discipline  in 
tenter-hooks.  Mr.  Lee  derived  quite  as  adequate  a  sat- 
isfaction of  revenge  from  this  pretty  little  piece  of  mis- 

133 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

chievous  dissemblance  as  one  of  a  less  amiable  tem- 
perament would  have  obtained  from  thunder  and  light- 
ning. 

Presently  Lloyd  stood  at  the  veranda  steps  and  nerved 
himself.  To  do  this  he  mentally  retreated  and  found 
refuge  in  the  imaginary  whistling  of  an  air.  Except  for 
politeness'  sake  he  would  have  whistled  it  aloud  as  an 
evidence  of  debonair  tranquillity. 

Marion,  on  the  contrary,  direct  and  open  to  circum- 
stance, began  to  feel  an  inward  stir  and  glow,  as  though 
some  latent  but  reliable  power  were  now  for  the  very  first 
time  to  be  tested.  On  the  upper  step  she  stood,  a  tacit 
intercessor,  waiting. 

Small  need!     Much  ado  about  nothing! 

Mr.  Lee,  resting  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  looked  im- 
personally down  at  Enoch.  "Lloyd,"  he  declared,  "I 
need  the  assistance  of  a  third  person  in  the  library." 

Already  his  thoughts  were  back  with  business;  al- 
ready his  vengeance  was  appeased. 

Oh,  the  relief  of  that  moment ! 

Marion  reseated  herself  in  the  hammock.  Enoch 
thanked  his  stars.  It  was  as  though  all  at  once  things 
of  the  night-time  about  them  drew  freer  breath.  The 
lull  of  suspense  was  broken.  The  moon  rose  up  above  a 
pine-tree.  The  pine-tree  sighed  with  satisfaction.  Ar- 
cady  was  itself  again.  Down  in  the  bog  near  the  water 
a  bull-frog  laughed. 

Mr.  Lee  meditatively  lighted  a  cigar.  "Yes,  Lloyd,  I 
need  you."  He  twirled  the  flickering  match,  bet  ween  a 
thumb  and  short  forefinger.  ' '  This  man  Ste.ele  must  be 
extinguished — so!"  With  a  puff  of  decision  he  blew  out 
the  match.  "Of  course  I  could  do  it  alone  " — -he  squared 
his  shoulders  and  compressed  his  lips  thinner  on  the  cigar 
— "but  you  see — "  He  hesitated;  the  shoulders  bent 
again;  he  took  the  cigar  in  his  fingers,  and,  turning  it 
about,  eyed  it  as  though  considering  the  brand.  "Well, 

134 


A    Knight   of  the   Moon    Rampant 

you  see,  I  need  a  witness  who  can  understand  my  posi- 
tion. " 

Lloyd  glanced  wonderingly  towards  the  library  win- 
dow. "I  shall  be  glad — "  he  began. 

"And  besides,"  continued  the  publisher,  "I  wish  to 
set  you  an  example."  He  laid  a  hand  on  Lloyd's  shoul- 
der. "  I  want  to  emphasize  in  your  presence  the  neces- 
sity of  maintaining  an  up-hill  course."  He  said  this 
in  even  tones,  with  none  of  that  jerkiness  which  a  mo- 
ment before  had  betrayed  an  effort  to  regain  some 
power  fast  declining  with  the  years.  The  steady  gentle- 
ness of  his  advice  seemed  a  good  deal  stronger  than  any 
of  his  intermittent  self-assertion.  He  had  fallen  back  on 
the  strength  of  age.  The  change  was  both  impressive 
and  graceful. 

Lloyd  inwardly  swore  allegiance  to  the  cause  of  this 
fatherly  old  gentleman.  "  I  shall  take  great  pleasure — " 
he  commenced. 

"It  is,  of  course,  only  proper  that  you  should  know 
the  facts,"  pursued  Mr.  Lee,  who  had  a  way  of  disre- 
garding interpositions  unless  they  positively  staggered 
him  into  notice.  "You  see,  it's  like  this.  Steele  has 
a  hankering  after  dignity  and  solidity  of  reputation. 
His  own  business  mints  money  but  lacks  prestige. 
Strangely  enough,  it  fails  to  satisfy  him.  He  is  always 
wanting  something.  First  it  was  a  fortune,  now  it  is 
standing,  and  next  —  but  who  knows  the  limit  of  his 
aim?  He  reaches  with  a  long  arm.  To  him  there  are 
no  sour  grapes  in  the  world.  He  concedes  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  loftiest  and  smacks  his  lips." 

Mr.  Lee  knocked  an  ash  from  his  cigar.  His  own  lips 
at  the  moment  were  puckered  and  moving  in  the  rumi- 
native way  of  affable  old  gentlemen  who  chew  the  cud  of 
experience  and  at  the  same  time  lull  their  tongues  in  the 
flavor  of  a  good  Havana. 

Lloyd  glanced  again  towards  the  library  window.  The 
135 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

man  in  there  was  doubtless  worthy  of  interest.  Already 
Enoch  began  to  feel  his  personality. 

"As  I  have  said,"  continued  the  publisher,  "he  even 
hopes  to  buy  me  out.  You  see,  it's  like  this — "  Again 
he  paused,  hesitant,  loath  to  explain,  more  than  ever 
crestfallen.  Then,  with  an  effort,  and  flicking  the  cigar 
though  the  ash  was  gone,  "I've  lost  money!"  Where- 
upon he  fell  to  smoking  and  smoking  till  a  veil  of  cloud, 
pearly  in  the  moonlight,  obscured  his  face  and  the  silence 
became  oppressive. 

Enoch  looked  everywhere  but  at  Marion.  Once  more 
the  hammock  was  ominously  still.  He  shared  the  con- 
straint that  kept  it  so. 

Soon,  however,  the  cigar  began  to  tell;  it  relieved 
the  tension.  If  Mr.  Lee's  pride  had  parted  from  him 
with  this  dire  assertion  from  his  lips,  the  sting  of  it  fol- 
lowed after  in  a  puff  by  the  same  outlet,  and  presently 
dissolved  in  the  filmy  nothingness  of  tobacco  smoke. 
"Yes,"  he  resumed,  at  length,  "of  late  my  publications 
have  been  unsuccessful — very,  indeed!"  He  bent  a  look 
of  fellow-sympathy  on  Lloyd,  who,  having  detected  a 
personal  note  in  the  publisher's  voice,  had  lowered  his 
glance,  and  now  appeared  to  be  assiduously  counting  the 
cracks  or  floor-planks  of  the  veranda.  Apparently  his 
patron  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  world  of  complexity  that 
lay  behind  this  attention  to  trivial  straight  lines.  "  Yes, 
Lloyd,  your  book  is  among  the  many.  We  may  as  well 
make  no  bones  of  the  fact.  Well,  perhaps  I've  consid- 
ered the  profits  too  little  in  recent  years.  Between  my 
way  and  Steele's  I  suppose  there's  a  happy  medium 
which  both  he  and  I  have  missed.  Undoubtedly  there 
are  many  who  combine  the  dignity  of  my  generation 
with  the  progressive  methods  of  yours,  and  yet  how  hard 
it  is  to  maintain  a  standard!  You  see,  it  has  always  been 
my  aim  to  issue  lasting  and  needed  books — works  that 
might  endure  as  contributions  to  our  national  literature, 


A   Knight   of  the    Moon    Rampant 

not  ephemera  produced  solely  in  the  interest  of  trade. 
I  knew  intimately  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Longfellow, 
Lowell,  Whitman,  and  others  of  their  rank,  and  once  in 
my  boyhood  I  met  Poe.  These  names  long  ago  fixed  a 
level  for  me,  and  I  never  could  bear  to  fall  very  far  be- 
low it.  What  is  the  result?  I  am  to-day  almost  insol- 
vent. Ever  loath  to  publish  a  large  amount  of  trash  in 
order  to  support  the  little  of  true  merit,  I  have  all  but 
failed.  Sentiment  is  always  a  beggar  in  the  end.  And 
yet,  Lloyd,  I've  clung  to  the  rags  of  it;  yes,  to  the  very 
rags." 

Again  he  paused,  and  moistening  at  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  a  frayed  end  of  the  cigar,  rerolled  it,  then  turned 
to  Marion.  "Isn't  it  so?  And  Steele  wants  to  bargain 
for  the  remnants!" 

To  this  the  response  was  unequivocal.  The  perfect 
clarity,  the  deep  certainty  of  her  voice  rang  long  after 
in  Enoch's  ears.  "Yes,  to  bargain  for  your  ideals." 

The  effect  of  this  was  good  to  see.  Mr.  Lee  seemed  all 
at  once  to  receive  an  infusion  of  new  life.  Instead  of 
dawdling  with  reminiscence  and  explanation  he  came  at 
once  to  the  point.  Fanning  away  with  one  hand  the 
thought-freighted  smoke  that  hung  heavy  between  him 
and  Lloyd,  he  spoke  with  unaccustomed  fire.  "Yes, 
yes;  that's  it!  Come,  Lloyd,  we'll  see  about  this! 
Steele  shall  have  my  answer.  What's  that — what — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  Enoch  was  facially  signalling 
to  him.  He  followed  the  covert  glances.  They  led  to 
the  open  window  of  the  library.  Then  he  understood. 

The  upper  half  of  a  tall  figure,  framed  by  the  casing, 
formed  a  disturbing  silhouette  against  the  dimly  lit  in- 
terior. 

Marion  and  Enoch  stared.  Mr.  Lee  suppressed  an  ex- 
clamation of  dismay.  What  was  there,  though,  save  to 
make  the  best  of  it? 

"Mr.  Steele,  I  want  to  introduce  Mr.  Lloyd." 
137 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

A  long  arm  reached  out  over  the  sill.  Enoch  stepped 
up  to  the  veranda  and  shook  hands  with  the  legless 
shadow.  The  features  were  invisible.  The  obscurity 
caused  by  the  veranda  roof  shrouded  them  in  darkness. 
Lloyd  found  himself  meeting  a  ghostly  sort  of  thing  that 
said  nothing.  The  hand  felt  glacially  hard,  like  marble. 

The  dramatic  mind  of  Enoch  conceived  portents. 
There  was  something  grim  about  the  introduction,  some- 
thing uncanny.  The  black  form,  cut  in  two  by  the  sill — 
the  flat  form,  silent  and  inscrutable  —  oppressed  him. 
Quickly  he  withdrew  his  hand,  but  the  moment  of  its 
contact,  the  feel  of  that  first  touch,  lingered  lastingly, 
as  if  he  had  grasped  the  hand  of  a  statue  or  a  corpse. 

All  this,  of  course,  was  rapider  than  thought,  being  a 
sudden  impression  of  the  senses.  Meantime,  outwardly 
matter-of-fact,  he  was  saying,  "How  do  you  do?"  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  receives  an  honor.  Despite  his  in- 
stinctive recoil,  was  it  possible  that  something  in  him  ad- 
mired the  lanky  shadow,  the  enigmatical  form  of  attain- 
ment? Was  it  possible  that  something  in  him  turned 
its  back  on  the  high-minded  gentleman  who  had  lately 
confessed  himself  unfortunate?  Perhaps  so,  for  secretly, 
no  matter  who  the  two,  success  receives  a  tacit  homage 
from  failure. 

Not  improbably  Lloyd  recognized  this  incipient  admi- 
ration, and  instantly  choked  it  back  as  the  tribute  of  a 
groundling.  At  all  events,  he  was  for  opposing  that 
M  Nemesis-like  figure  then  and  there.  Consequently  the 
battle-signal  of  Mr.  Lee,  "Come,  Lloyd,  we'll  settle  this 
matter  in  the  library,"  peculiarly  satisfied  his  present 
humor. 

The  old  publisher,  now  hot  for  a  clash,  forgot  his  usual 
polite  formality  and  straightway  entered  the  house  in 
advance  of  his  lieutenant. 

Enoch,  hesitating  an  instant,  glanced  at  Marion.  She 
was  looking  out  into  the  night,  as  though  forgetful  of  his 

138 


A   Knight   of  the    Moon   Rampant 

presence.  While  he  stood  above  her,  lingering,  evidently 
loath  to  go,  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  their  question,  asked 
of  space,  seemed  for  one  moment  to  demand  a  response 
from  him.  Now  for  the  first  time  he  could  look  into 
them,  could  lose  himself  in  their  deep  limpidity  and 
experience  that  rarest  paradox  —  the  descent  into  a 
woman's  nature  whose  depth  is  the  height  to  which  a 
man  would  rise. 

Time  pressed.  "I  must  go,"  whispered  Enoch;  "but 
I'll  hurry  back.  Stay  here!  I  want  to  ask — "  He 
paused.  There  was  time  for  a  word  both  ways.  The 
riddle  of  the  shore  phantom  cried  to  heaven  for  solution. 

He  bent  over  her,  swiftly  insistent. 

At  the  same  instant  Stephen  Lee,  impatient  for  his 
ally,  appeared  at  the  window.  "Lloyd!  "  he  ejaculated, 
"  Mr.  Steele  says  business  is  business.  Aren't  you —  " 

But  already  the  dilatory  moon-raker  was  rushing  head- 
long into  the  house. 


XIII 
A  Sockdolager 

A  LEAN,  tall,  and  prominent-jointed  individual,  spare 
of  shoulder,  sallow,  loose -clothed,  sparse -haired, 
colorless,  mediocre  —  this  at  first  glance  was  Lloyd's 
impression  of  Matthew  Steele. 

In  three  minutes,  however,  the  man's  exterior  was  for- 
gotten, his  personality  felt.  Incisive,  never  wordy,  ab- 
solutely self-possessed,  he  presented  a  sharp  warning 
against  judgment  by  appearances.  If  his  physique 
seemed  to  be  incontinently  laughing  at  his  calm  ego,  that 
ego  appeared  indifferently  to  ignore  the  irregularities  of 
his  physique. 

Lloyd  had  an  opportunity  to  study  him,  Mr.  Lee  be- 
ing now  seated  at  a  large  writing-table  in  the  middle  of 
the  library,  where,  with  an  extended  gaze  into  his  cigar 
smoke,  he  frowningly  strove  to  shape  an  adequate  ulti- 
matum. It  would  be  easy  enough  to  decline  Steele's 
offer,  but  very  difficult  to  impress  such  a  man  with  the 
full  meaning  of  the  refusal. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  stood  their  calm  antag- 
onist, the  fingers  of  one  hand  resting  on  its  top.  Facing 
Lloyd,  he  inspected  the  young  author  casually,  and  for  a 
moment  said  nothing. 

"So  this,"  quoth  Enoch  to  himself,  "is  Matthew 
Steele;  this  is  the  so-called  'Patron  of  the  Popular  ' ;  this 
is  what  Cuthbert  Morton  means  by  'a  walking  back- 
bone.'" After  which  statement  of  the  case  Enoch  be- 
gan to  feel  a  trifle  awkward  under  the  cool  scrutiny  of  the 

140 


A   Sockdolager 

other,  and  remarked  on  the  pleasantness  of  the  evening — 
a  triviality  that  Steele  not  even  by  a  nod  of  the  head  was 
at  pains  to  agree  with  or  deny.  He  kept  looking  at  and 
into  the  youth  before  him. 

But  soon  from  the  other  side  of  the  writing-table  came 
relief.  Mr.  Lee  looked  up  with  gathering  coherence.  "  It 
is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  evening — Mr.  Steele  has  afforded 
me  a  pleasant  opportunity.  He  has  offered  me  a  large 
fortune  for  the  name  '  Stephen  Lee  and  Company,'  under 
which  he  wishes  to  continue  his  business.  My  answer, 
as  you  may  imagine" — here  he  blinked  mysteriously 
and  moistened  his  lips  with  a  relish — "gives  me  much 
satisfaction.  There  cannot  be  the  slightest — " 

Before  he  could  finish  his  prepared  surprise,  Steele 
spoke,  and,  thanks  to  a  dull,  penetrative,  metallic  note 
in  his  voice,  there  was  no  listening  to  any  thoughts  other 
than  those  he  inspired.  He  spoke  slowly ;  he  spoke  hard. 
His  accents  seemed  made  for  consonants.  The  words 
had  no  bearing  whatever  on  those  of  Mr.  Lee.  They 
came  as  a  conclusion  to  his  protracted  gaze  at  Enoch. 
"Mr.  Lloyd,  I  could  make  you  in  a  month." 

Whereafter,  for  a  long  moment,  the  silence  was  un- 
broken save  by  a  quicker  puffing  of  cigar  smoke  from 
their  host. 

Enoch  was  staggered,  embarrassed — all  at  sea.  His 
cheeks  flushed.  He  smiled  inadequately.  Nothing  sug- 
gested itself  as  the  right  response. 

"I  could  make  you,"  reiterated  Steele,  "famous." 

Lloyd  laughed  a  low,  incredulous  laugh,  that  may  have 
been  meant  to  denote  indifference,  but  suggested, 
whether  he  would  or  not,  humility.  He  glanced  at  Mr. 
Lee. 

The  old  publisher  was  evidently  agitated.  His  eyes, 
behind  the  haze  of  smoke,  were  angry.  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  speak  at  once,  the  personality  of  Steele  was  so 
benumbing. 

141 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"It's  a  pity,"  observed  Steele — "a  great  pity." 

"What  is?"  ventured  Lloyd,  sliding  his  fingers  idly  on 
the  table-top. 

"That  your  fluent  style  has  not  been  turned  to  better 
account.  Yes,  I've  read  The  Greatest  Good.  We're  al- 
ways on  the  lookout,  you  know,  for  young  blood;  and 
somehow  you  have  the  hang  of  the  thing,  but  you've 
wandered  off  in  the  wrong  direction." 

"I've  done  my  best,"  muttered  Lloyd,  and  wondered 
at  the  meekness  with  which  he  said  it. 

Steele  inclined  his  head  gravely.  "That's  the  trouble. 
You've  done  too  well.  You  should  have  got  your  public 
first,  and  afterwards  blossomed  out.  My  motto  has 
always  been,  'Begin  low  down.'  You've  got  to  do  it. 
It's  the  only  way." 

Lloyd's  brows  contracted.  "In  some  things  —  yes; 
but — "  He  hesitated,  his  objections  losing  shape. 

Steele's  lower  jaw  slightly  protruded.  "No,  Mr. 
Lloyd,  it's  so  in  everything.  Take  my  own  case.  My 
first  experience  with  the  kind  of  literature  Mr.  Lee  re- 
veres was  the  usual  portion  of  a  man  who  spends  his  life 
outside  front  doors.  I  peddled  classics.  My  patronage 
of  standard  authors  in  those  days  barely  fed  me.  Natu- 
rally, I  preferred  success  with  what  Mr.  Lee  terms  twaddle 
to  failure  with  unremunerative  genius." 

Mr.  Lee  stood  up.  "An  experience  like  yours  is 
scarcely — " 

But  the  colorless  eyes  of  Steele  never  swerved  from 
Lloyd.  "  Your  book,  for  instance,"  he  interrupted,  with 
rude  persistence,  "has  failed.  I  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  publishing  it.  I  would  have  toned  you  down. 
I  would  have  insisted  on  a  plot.  It  pays  to  have  thrills 
and  plenty  of  color."  He  clinched  his  fist  in  emphasis. 
"I  would  have  drilled  you  in  the  knack  of  catching  the 
public.  You've  got  to  do  that  at  first."  He  pressed  the 
emphatic  fist  against  the  table-top  and  every  word  was 

142 


A   Sockdolager 

like  the  stroke  of  a  hammer.  "  Ideals  and  righteous- 
ness be  damned!  You've  got  to  get  hold  of  the  people!" 

"But — "  began  Lloyd  again,  with  rising  indignation, 
then  once  more  hesitated  and  swept  back  the  hair  from 
his  forehead  with  uneasy  fingers. 

"There  are  no  'buts,' "  declared  Steele,  with  a  ponder- 
ous shake  of  the  head.  "I  know  a  clever  woman  who 
once  said, ' "  Ifs"  and  "buts"  are  weeds  in  the  garden  of 
language.1  That  sounds  like  a  book.  It's  one  of  the 
few  booky  things  that  are  true.  Perhaps  the  floweri- 
ness  of  it  will  appeal  to  Mr.  Lee."  He  glanced  sideways 
across  the  table  and  smoothed  his  mustache  downward 
with  his  palm.  "Succeed  first,  then  you  can  dabble  in 
beautiful  nonsense.  Success  can't  fail;  it  can  afford  to 
take  chances."  He  jammed  his  protruding  knuckles  hard 
against  the  writing-table.  Lloyd  saw  the  semi -fore- 
finger whiten  with  the  pressure.  "You  should  reduce 
everything  to  business  principles.  With  you  it's  the 
same  as  with  me.  The  whole  thing  is  a  question  of  busi- 
ness. Don't  stay  here.  This  is  no  place  for  work.  Get 
into  the  crowd.  Come  to  New  York."  He  paused. 
"Remember  this:  get  a  hand  on  life  and  begin  low  down. 
There  must  be  no  'buts'!" 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Lee  smiled.  "  But,"  he  said, 
and  chuckled. 

Steele,  turning,  looked  at  him  in  calm  surprise. 

"But,"  repeated  Mr.  Lee,  and  pursed  his  lips  with 
amusement. 

Steele  laughed  a  short,  clipped  laugh,  that  caused  the 
sole  remaining  partner  of  the  firm  of  Stephen  Lee  and 
Company  to  straighten  up  and  lift  his  glasses. 

"  I  said  'but,'  "  remarked  Mr.  Lee,  portentously. 

Steele  raised  his  scanty  eyebrows.     "Which  means?" 

"Which  means,"  proclaimed  the  little  old  gentleman, 
his  chubby  cheeks  reddening,  "that  there  is  a  'but'  some- 
times. Which  means  that  if  business  is  business  it  is 

143 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

occasionally  something  more.  Which  means  —  but,  of 
course,  you  have  guessed  the  tenor  of  my  answer." 

Steele's  lips  parted  in  a  smile  that  showed  two  lines  of 
discolored  teeth.  " I'm  not  given  to  guessing,"  he  said; 
and,  seating  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  he  drew  from  his 
breast-pocket  a  long  cigar,  which,  without  lighting,  he 
began  to  mouth. 

Mr.  Lee  continued.  "I've  taken  the  liberty  of  ad- 
mitting Mr.  Lloyd  to  our  interview  partly  for  my  own 
sake,  largely  for  his,  though,  it's  true,  not  at  all  for  yours. 
Mr.  Lloyd  and  I  are  in  a  similar  position.  We  have  both 
done  our  best;  we  have  both  failed  in  the  worldly  sense, 
but  have  succeeded  in  another.  We  shall  continue  to- 
gether up-hill."  He  smiled  at  Enoch  with  confident 
cheerfulness.  "Am  I  not  right,  Mr.  Lloyd?" 

Without  knowing  why,  Enoch  felt  somewhat  shame- 
faced; therefore  his  answer  was  doubly  fervent.  "Yes, 
yes — up-hill." 

Steele's  slow  glance  moved  around  to  the  young  au- 
thor, and  he  shrugged  with  the  air  of  one  who  doubts 
an  exception  to  a  world-wide  rule. 

"I  trust,"  pursued  Mr.  Lee,  advancing  from  behind 
the  table,  "you  will  forgive  me  if  I  am  somewhat  se- 
vere." Even  now  his  old-fashioned  courtliness  and  the 
duties  of  a  host  were  not  forgotten. 

Steele  rose  from  the  arm  -  chair  and  stood  with 
his  back  turned,  inspecting  the  portrait  of  the  fa- 
mous publisher.  "Go  ahead,"  said  he,  "if  it  pleases 
you." 

Mr.  Lee  glanced  up,  not  at  his  own  portrait,  but  at 
that  of  his  martial  ancestor.  Lloyd,  catching  his  trend, 
noticed  for  the  first  time  a  slight  similarity  of  expression. 
He  wondered  if  Stephen  Lee  had  fashioned  for  himself  a 
weapon  one-half  so  keen  of  edge  and  ruthless  in  defence 
of  liberty  as  that  ancestral  sword.  It  seemed  improb- 
able. Nevertheless,  since  Marion  had  stated  the  case 

144 


A   Sockdolager 

as  being  an  attempt  at  bargaining  for  ideals,  her  father, 
inspirited  with  new  force,  had  seemed  brave  as  a  little 
David  before  this  inscrutable  Goliath. 

Lloyd  waited  impatiently,  but  still  Mr.  Lee  delayed. 
Like  warriors  of  old,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  a  pre- 
amble, from  the  gylp-spraec,  proclaiming  a  mortal  com- 
bat. 

"My  reply  to  you  has  an  edge,"  he  announced,  with  a 
quaintly  childish  air  of  pride.  "  I  must  adopt  your  own 
succinctness  of  phraseology.  One  must  fight  Steele,  you 
know,  with  steel!"  Whereat  he  shot  a  look  at  Lloyd, 
eloquent  of  naive  delight  in  his  own  humor,  and,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  spoke  in  this  whimsi- 
cal but  telling  fashion : 

"Mr.  Steele,  this  is  the  long  and  short  of  it:  you  are 
you,  and  I  am  I — a  condition  of  affairs  that  possibly  you, 
and  certainly  I,  would  be  loath  to  reverse.  Yet,  to  speak 
plainly,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  prefer  to  be  some  one  else. 
You  traffic  in  the  shoddies  of  literature;  you  deal  in 
shams ;  you  foist  spurious  articles  on  the  public ;  you  are 
a  past-master  in  make-believe.  The  books  you  publish 
distort  life.  They  are  yellow  to  the  core.  Therefore 
you  must  remain  you,  and  I — I!  The  combination  you 
suggest  is  impossible.  Extremes  do  not  always  meet — 
we,  for  example.  I  take  great  pleasure  in  rejecting  your 
offer." 

His  answer  thus  pointedly  delivered,  Mr.  Lee  smiled 
with  triumph  at  the  narrow  back  of  Matthew  Steele. 

Inwardly,  Lloyd  was  applauding  the  effort.  His  eyes 
sparkled.  The  reply  had  proved  a  weapon,  after  all. 
And  yet  how  incongruously  Mr.  Lee  had  wielded  it! 
How  quaintly  unmartial  he  appeared! 

Evidently  the  pithy  ultimatum  tickled  the  speaker's 
fancy.  He  glanced  sideways  at  Lloyd  with  twinkling 
eyes  and  a  short  nod,  as  who  should  say,  "How's  that 
for  a  sockdolager?" 

10  145 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

The  enthusiasm  in  Enoch's  face  seemed  to  exclaim 
immoderately,  ' '  Tremendous ! ' ' 

Steele  turned,  and,  reseating  himself  in  the  arm-chair, 
pointed  with  his  cigar  to  the  portrait.  "What  book's 
that  you're  holding  in  the  picture?" 

Mr.  Lee  suppressed  a  gasp.  The  calm  irrelevance  of 
the  query  amazed  him.  Taken  aback,  he  answered,  be- 
wilderedly,  "It's  our  first  publication,  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queene." 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Steele — "a  child's  book.  I  never 
take  any  stock  in  juveniles.  They  don't  pay." 

Mr.  Lee  looked  hopeless.  "  A  child's  book!  Dear  me, 
don't  you  know — "  But  he  only  sighed  helplessly,  as 
though  in  the  presence  of  an  impossible ;  then  turning  to 
Lloyd,  "What,"  he  asked,  "is  the  world  coming  to?" 

Enoch  scarcely  knew  whether  to  smile  or  frown.  He 
was  experiencing  a  peculiar  satisfaction,  mingled  with 
dismay — satisfaction  because,  whatever  the  whimsies  of 
it,  that  answer  had  championed  his  better  self;  had 
voiced  his  genius ;  had  guarded  the  nobility  of  his  calling, 
and,  like  the  pebble  of  David,  had  been  slung  with  intent 
to  kill;  dismay  because  the  Philistine  ignored  it.  Un- 
like his  prototype — as  Mr.  Lee  might  have  expressed  it 
had  not  the  whimsies  been  suddenly  dispelled — unlike 
his  prototype,  this  giant  kept  his  head.  The  hosts  of  the 
Lord  were  robbed  of  triumph ;  so  at  least  thought  Enoch. 

There  in  the  easy-chair,  his  long  legs  crossed  and  eyes 
casual,  lolled  Steele,  unconcernedly  mouthing  his  never- 
to-be-lit  cigar,  while  Mr.  Lee's  face  took  on  the  uncer- 
tainty of  a  child's  that  puckers  between  distress  and 
laughter. 

Finally  Matthew's  gaze,  from  roving  about  the  room, 
fell  to  the  lengthy  and  pointed  toe  of  his  uppermost  shoe. 
There  it  seemed  to  concentrate  narrowly,  till  at  last  he 
spoke  to  the  polished  patent  leather.  "  Plenty  more  fish 
in  the  sea.  Stephen  Lee  and  Company  aren't  the  only 

146 


A   Sockdolager 

big  ones.  There's  dignity  to  burn.  Money  gets  what 
it's  after."  He  looked  up  indifferently  at  Mr.  Lee.  "I 
suppose  you  don't  mind  if  I  stay  a  few  moments?  The 
train  doesn't  go  for  thirty  minutes  yet.  Hack  '11  be  out 
here  for  me  in  ten." 

Mr.  Lee  nodded  absent-mindedly.  Already  the  stress 
of  the  interview  had  told.  It  left  his  thoughts  vague, 
dispersed,  and  rambling.  Like  an  army  after  some  in- 
decisive battle,  they  roamed  off  wide  afield,  wanting 
naught  save  rest  and  comfort.  Going  to  the  book- 
shelves, he  took  down  a  small,  dilapidated  volume, seated 
himself  in  an  arm-chair  on  the  far  side  of  the  writing- 
table,  and  fell  to  browsing. 

Enoch  felt  dispirited.  The  progress  of  the  right, 
concerning  which  Mr.  Lee  had  recently  held  forth, 
seemed  to  have  sustained  a  set-back.  Even  the  issue 
had  petered  out.  Lloyd  regretted  the  lack  of  sharp  re- 
sults. He  would  have  liked  to  see  a  strong  climax. 
Steele  should  have  slunk  away  like  a  beaten  cur;  Mr. 
Lee  should  have  worn  the  aspect  of  a  victor.  The  ful- 
ness of  life  in  Enoch  rebelled  against  so  smooth  an  end- 
ing. Life  safeguarded  him  against  a  feeling  of  easy 
acquiescence.  Something  of  the  gallery -god  in  the 
youth  of  him,  something  too  elemental  ever  to  be  ig- 
noble, cried  for  the  triumph  of  the  hero.  Unfortunate- 
ly, one  cannot  hiss  or  applaud  in  a  drawing-room,  else 
the  play  might  be  differently  enacted. 

Lloyd  felt  useless.  Neither  of  the  two  paid  the 
slightest  attention  to  him.  He  glanced  at  the  open 
window.  What  was  there  now  to  keep  him  from  her? 
Ought  he  to  stay  and  oppose  an  opinion  or  two  against 
Baal?  What  use?  Baal  would  be  Baal  still. 

Lloyd  impulsively  decided  on  a  direr  blow.  The  im- 
pulse was  not  without  vanity.  He  would  succeed.  By 
her  aid  he  would  succeed.  He  would  show  Steele  that 
ideals  can  win  as  well  as  "thrills  and  plenty  of  color." 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

Then  he  would  be  able  to  despise,  in  a  way  that  at  present, 
for  some  inexplicable  reason,  he  could  not  despise,  the 
"  Patron  of  the  Popular."  Immediately  he  must  invoke 
her  sympathy,  must  share  with  her  the  outline  of  this 
glorious  emprise. 

Already  assuming  an  air  of  condescension — so  long  are 
the  leaps  of  hope — he  bowed  a  good-night  to  Matthew 
Steele. 

In  a  moment  he  was  on  the  veranda. 

She  had  gone. 

He  spoke  her  name.  No  response.  He  scanned  the 
slope.  Not  a  figure.  He  hurried  down  to  the  orchard 
whose  twisted  trunks  were  duplicated  each  by  a  prone 
and  yet  more  twisted  shadow  in  the  moonlit  dog-grass 
underneath.  Not  a  single  straight  and  slender  form. 
All  was  gnarled  —  branches  and  shadow  branches;  all 
was  haunted  and  misshapen — a  place  of  silver  patches 
and  enormous  arabesques.  He  went  to  the  lane.  It 
meandered  shoreward,  unreal,  untrod,  its  two  deep  ruts 
suggesting  the  furrows  of  a  phantom  plough.  Not  here. 
He  gazed  at  the  shore.  There  was  not  a  ripple  on  the 
water.  Still  the  two  boats  lay  moored  together,  sails 
furled.  He  retraced  his  steps,  went  to  the  veranda, 
hesitant  between  the  open  window  and  the  long  path 
homeward  by  which  he  had  determined  to  walk  for 
want  of  a  breeze.  Rowing  to-night  would  require  too 
much  exertion. 

Five  minutes  of  the  ten  had  passed.  Steele  glanced 
over  at  Mr.  Lee.  "  Lloyd  rich?" 

"No,  poor.  Just  enough,  I  fancy,  to  live  on." 
Steele  surveyed  the  ceiling.  "Royalties,  of  course, 
next  to  nothing.  It's  too  bad.  He's  clever,  what's 
more.  I  tell  you  it's  folly  to  ignore  the  demand  of  the 
public.  When  they  want  blood  and  thunder,  give  it  'em. 
When  they  want  problems,  give  'em  those,  too.  When 

148 


A   Sockdolager 

they  want  religion —  Hang  the  thing!  It's  as  much 
a  question  of  style  as  straw  hats." 

Mr.  Lee  sighed  wearily  and  said  nothing.  He  was 
gazing  abstractedly  at  a  small  stretch  of  moonlight 
which,  between  him  and  the  window,  slanted  across  the 
floor.  A  slender  shadow  clove  the  centre  of  the  patch. 
At  first  Mr.  Lee,  surveying  the  form,  subconsciously 
ascribed  it  to  one  of  the  Doric  columns.  But  no,  it 
was  not  so  still,  not  so  straight;  it  wavered. 

"He  will  have  to  begin,"  repeated  Steele,  "by  catch- 
ing the  crowd." 

The  shadow  bent  and  shortened..  If  this  was  the  col- 
umn, the  column  was  toppling  over — an  absurdity,  of 
course.  Mr.  Lee  raised  his  glance  to  the  window. 

Enoch  Lloyd  was  looking  in.  His  eyes  were  reckless 
with  disappointment.  He  spoke.  "Good -night,  Mr. 
Lee.  I  must  be  going."  He  smiled  at  Steele.  "Good- 
night, Mr.  Steele.  Perhaps  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said 
on  your  side,  after  all;"  with  which  he  left  them. 

Mr.  Lee  started  to  rise  and  follow  his  prote'ge,  but  the 
strain  of  the  recent  encounter  had  fogged  his  mind.  He 
could  not  think  clearly.  Settling  back  again,  he  turned 
the  pages  of  his  book  with  listless  fingers. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  presently  asked  Steele, 
smiling  at  his  cigar. 

"I'm  not  reading." 

"No?" 

"No." 

"Well,  what's  the  book? 

"Oh,"  replied  Mr.  Lee,  gazing  at  the  empty  window, 
"  this  is  that  first  copy  of  The  Faerie  Queene."  He  closed 
the  ragged  volume,  sighing. 


XIV 
The   Temple   of   Sleep 

APPARENTLY,  Marion  had  gone  to  bed— had  calm- 
1\  ly,  indifferently,  betaken  herself  to  her  room  and 
shunned  a  tryst  with  her  sky-bearer.  Apparently,  she 
preferred  her  prison  walls  to  Elysian  adventure  with  a 
Knight  of  the  Moon  Rampant.  Actually,  she  had  done 
nothing  of  the  kind.  It  is  not  the  way  of  a  Maid  Marion. 
She  needs  the  sky,  she  needs  the  stars,  the  trees,  the 
water.  What  better  refuge  than  solitude  in  the  out- 
of-doors  ? 

Marion  had  sought  the  shore  instinctively.  Often  of  a 
summer's  night,  when  her  father  was  away,  she  would 
stroll  hither  by  the  lane,  and,  lying  down  in  her  boat, 
would  embark,  as  she  said,  on  a  voyage  at  anchor.  Thus, 
with  the  water  whispering  underneath,  it  was  her  way  to 
lie  by  the  hour  looking  up  at  the  stars,  losing  herself  in 
the  heights,  imagining  a  new  astrology.  Of  astronomy 
proper  she  knew  little,  could  name  only  the  two  Bears 
and  larger  planets,  could  recall  nothing  of  the  distances. 
What  need?  She  felt  an  influence,  and  the  distances 
meant  more  unmeasured.  She  was  part  of  the  bright- 
stelled  universe  —  a  little,  living,  breathing  part,  creat- 
urely  serene,  aquatic,  sylvan.  This,  till  to-night — but 
to-night  how  different!  True,  she  had  sought  the  same 
surroundings,  but  what  unwonted  agitation  in  the  seek- 
ing! It  was  as  though  she  were  pursued.  Her  steps  in 
the  quiet  lane  no  longer  bespoke  a  rambler.  Whether 
she  would  or  not,  her  feet  made  haste,  barely  touched 

150 


The   Temple    of   Sleep 

the  tufts  and  furrows  of  the  pathway.  And  when  she 
reached  the  old  stone  dock  and  caught  the  Ariel's  paint- 
er, when  she  stepped  aboard  and  sank  down  on  the 
cushions  of  the  cockpit,  where  was  the  somnolence, 
where  the  dream?  Could  this  be  a  voyage  at  anchor? 
She  did  not  even  look  up  to  the  heights;  did  not  have 
recourse  to  that  vague  astrology.  Something  of  a  newer 
astrology  possessed  her,  something  by  no  means  vague 
nor  idly  hallucinant.  No  more  were  the  two  Bears  and 
a  few  planets  controllers  of  her  mood.  Could  it  be  the 
moon  that  claimed  ascendency?  Scarcely.  The  mere 
moon  seemed  too  fantastic,  hyper-romantic,  theatric. 
Surely  some  new  star  had  gone  to  its  perihelion — some 
undreamed-of,  world-transforming  star. 

She  did  not  look  up.  Instead,  she  half  reclined  on  her 
side,  and,  resting  a  cheek  on  one  hand,  gazed  not  at  the 
sky,  star-seeking,  but  up  over  the  slope, past  the  orchard, 
to  the  house  itself,  as  though  the  orbit  of  a  star  might 
possibly  cross  a  veranda. 

It  did.  The  luminary,  strange  to  say,  soon  made  its 
appearance  in  the  doorway.  Her  breath  came  fast. 
Would  the  star  prove  a  meteor  and  descend  upon  her? 
Fearing  so,  she  sank  lower.  But  no;  the  celestial  body 
seemed  neither  orbital  nor  meteoric.  Its  path  was  too 
uncertain.  It  came  and  went,  down  through  the  or- 
chard, in  and  out  amid  the  maze  of  shadow,  the  huge  ara- 
besques, to  the  lane,  here  and  there  hovering,  more  will- 
o'-the-wisp  than  star.  Now  back  again  to  the  house,  to 
the  open  window;  now  down  once  more  to  the  slope; 
then  away,  farther  and  farther,  .  .  .  slowly. 

A  look  of  dolor  deepened  the  watcher's  eyes.  She 
began  to  regret  that  the  star  was  not  a  meteor.  First, 
fearful  of  its  possible  descent,  she  now  deplored  its  pass- 
ing. (So  mysterious  are  the  ways  of  this  astrology.) 
Watching  still,  she  gave  the  star  a  name,  whispered 
"Enoch!"  before  it  was  lost  to  view,  "Enoch!" — as 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

if  to  stay  its  wayward  course,  then  suppressed  the 
whisper. 

But  the  world  had  heard;  the  trees  on  the  shore,  the 
water  and  the  sky  and  the  evening,  all  had  heard.  Only 
the  star  was  deaf  to  her.  Even  Marion  herself  could 
not  evade  the  meaning  of  her  whispered  call.  She  sat 
up,  a  new  look,  a  timid,  awe-inspired  glow  of  pride  and 
wonder  kindling  yet  deeper  in  her  eyes.  What  now 
were  all  the  constellations  in  the  almanac?  The  al- 
manac of  her  heart  contained  but  one.  She  had  discov- 
ered a  star,  had  named  it;  the  sky  was  full.  All  space 
could  hold  no  more. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  free  now  to  indulge  her  fancy. 
Enoch  had  gone.  He  was  walking  home.  She  would 
inspect  his  boat  and  study  it  a  moment — of  course,  from 
a  purely  nautical  stand-point. 

She  smiled  at  seeing  the  name  of  his  skiff  across  its 
stern.  He  had  called  the  boat  The  Ruffian. 

Drawing  the  Ariel  close  to  it,  she  made  fast  the  painter 
to  a  cleat  near  his  tiller  and  stepped  aboard. 

First  she  surveyed  the  rigging,  cast  a  mariner's  eye  on 
the  blocks  and  halyards,  but  soon  was  seated  beside  the 
tiller.  Finally,  with  a  look  scarcely  to  be  termed  nauti- 
cal, she  stretched  herself  on  the  cushions  and  imagined 
that  the  captain  of  this  enchanted  craft  was  at  the  helm. 
Evidently  the  fancy  had  a  pleasant  touch ;  it  soothed  her 
mood.  There  was  something  unspeakably  restful,  inef- 
fably contenting,  in  yielding  the  tiller  to  another  hand. 
Never  till  now  had  she  done  so,  even  in  reverie  under  the 
stars. 

She  looked  up,  and  once  again,  but  now  with  a  new 
dreaminess,  lost  herself  in  gazing.  Whither  would  he 
shape  their  course  ?  To  what  fair  haven  would  he  steer  ? 
She  foresaw  no  chance  of  danger ;  no  storm  yet  brewed  on 
the  vague  horizon.  If  it  did,  she  would  awake.  The  re- 
alization that  this  was  only  fanciful,  that  at  any  time  she 

152 


The   Temple   of   Sleep 

could  step  ashore,  lent  her  a  feeling  of  pleasant  security 
under  the  dream.  Even  this  was  a  voyage  at  anchor. 
She  had  yet  no  heart  for  the  casting  adrift,  none  for  the 
shoreless  ocean,  not  a  pulse-beat  for  the  sea  with  its 
hazard  and  depth  and  vastness,  its  come-what-may. 
Elemental  herself,  and  loving  the  natural  elements,  she 
nevertheless  feared  with  a  virgin  timidity  the  elements 
of  life. 

But  now,  lying  here,  the  danger  past,  Lloyd  gone,  she 
could  almost  have  fallen  asleep  for  contentment.  Once 
again  she  was  finding  comfort  in  the  primeval  lap.  As 
yet  there  was  never  a  ripple  on  the-  bay;  it  slept.  Only 
the  heart  of  it,  the  tide,  stirred  beneath  her.  Nothing 
moved.  Nothing  moved,  until  at  last  the  high,  bright 
spots  above  appeared  to  recede  yet  higher  and  merge 
into  one  lone  star;  this,  then,  into  the  moon,  .  .  .  and  she 
was  drifting  with  the  current  of  the  Milky  Way,  on  and 
on,  .  .  .  peacefully,  .  .  .  when  finally  the  moon  itself  dis- 
solved and  she  rose  above  the  nebulae  of  dreams. 

The  lull  broke  gently.  A  line  of  ripples  from  some- 
where in  the  north  titivated  the  water.  A  breeze  with 
infinite  subtlety  touched  her  brow.  Stealing  about  her 
hair,  it  spun  her  a  halo  in  threads  of  fire  and  fanned  the 
flame.  This  done,  it  hastened,  freighted  with  destiny, 
along  the  shore.  Busy  of  intrigue,  it  stole  whispering 
hither  and  thither,  till  the  leaves  awoke  and  the  water- 
side grasses,  and  at  last,  from  his  lonely  despondence, 
the  principal  victim  of  its  toils. 

Enoch  paused.  The  hair  was  straggling  about  his 
forehead.  He  surveyed  the  water.  The  moon  -  rays 
looked  like  a  myriad  shifting  silver  filings  or  scales  of 
fish.  They  danced. 

He  listened  to  the  faint  commotion  of  the  shore-side 
trees.  It  voiced  the  restlessness  within  him.  He 
glanced  off  and  above  Mount  Hope.  A  scud  of  small, 
keen  clouds,  winglike,  silver -tipped,  sable-edged,  cut 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

the  northern  sky.  The  sight  of  their  coherence  sharp- 
ened his  thoughts.  He  turned  back  towards  the  old 
stone  dock.  Why  should  he  trudge  and  think?  A 
breeze  had  sprung  up.  He  would  sail  home.  Perhaps  it 
was  just  as  well.  Why  should  he  leave  the  boat  here, 
as  an  excuse  to  return  and  see  her?  How  much  better  to 
have  no  excuse;  then  he  would  never  return!  Had  she 
not  deliberately  left  him,  without  even  a  good-night  ?  The 
thing  was  an  affront ;  the  mere  duty  of  a  hostess  should 
have  kept  her.  But  what  cared  he  ?  Of  course  he  must 
visit  her  again.  Her  neglect  as  hostess  merited  a  studied 
courtesy  from  him  as  guest.  Of  course  he  must  call. 
But  he  would  never  again  question  her  about  that  fate- 
ful episode  on  the  Mount  Hope  shore — and  yet,  if  he  did 
not,  perhaps  she  would  want  him  to,  and  if  she  wanted 
him  to  and  asked  him,  and  her  eyes  pleaded — those  lu- 
cent eyes,  dew-gray,  sea-deep  —  if  they  implored,  per- 
haps, after  a  long  time — but  no,  not  even  then !  He  was 
now  resolved  ever  to  remain  a  perfect  exemplar  of  serene 
politeness.  The  one  formality  of  his  life  would  be  his 
friendship — or,  rather,  his  acquaintance — with  Marion 
Lee.  .  .  .  Marion  Lee!  He  repeated  the  name.  Now  for 
the  first  time  he  had  spoken  her  full  name  to  himself. 
Now  for  the  first  time  it  assumed  the  meaning  of  a  sound. 
Marion  Lee!  The  name  was  a  lyric  in  itself. 

He  stopped  at  the  dock,  an  old  structure  with  massive 
sides  of  stone,  and  earth  between,  yielding  a  strip  of 
greensward  from  end  to  end.  He  glanced  over  his  shoul- 
der at  the  upper  windows  of  the  house.  They  were  dark. 
Evidently  Marion  Lee,  quite  indifferent  to  thoughts  of 
him,  had  fallen  asleep.  Marion  Lee!  The  name  hurt. 
He  would  sail  away  from  it  for  good  and  all. 

In  another  moment  he  was  at  the  dock's  end  fumbling 
with  a  knot. 

The  tide  had  turned  and  was  ebbing.  The  Ruffian  lay 
drifting  at  painter's  length — so  far,  in  fact,  that  it  almost 


The  Temple   of   Sleep 

overran  the  small  white  buoy  to  which  he  believed  the 
Ariel  was  moored.  He  glanced  across  to  the  fairy  yawl. 
She  nosed  his  boat's  rudder  as  closely  as  if  her  line  had 
become  entangled  in  his  sheet -rope  or  caught  across  one 
of  the  stern  cleats. 

Enoch  untied  the  knot  in  hand.  Nothing  now  re- 
mained but  to  make  sail.  Leaving  the  line  about  an  old, 
decaying  post,  he  retained  the  loose  end  and  stepped 
aboard.  Ordinarily  he  would  now  have  secured  that  end 
somewhere  forward,  thus  leaving  a  loop  about  the  post 
to  hold  him  until  he  had  made  sail  and  was  ready  to  cast 
off.  This  had  been  his  usual  routine  when  the  dock  was 
high  and  he  alone,  and  at  present  he  took  a  dull  delight 
in  uneventful  details.  He  was  casting  off,  he  dramati- 
cally assured  himself — forever. 

But  suddenly,  on  glancing  down,  he  started,  paused 
breathless,  and  steadied  himself  against  the  mast.  Thence 
he  stood  peering  into  the  lower  shadows,  wonder-struck, 
amazed.  The  rope's  end,  dropping  from  his  hand, 
trailed  gently  along  the  deck.  He  was  utterly  unheed- 
ful  of  its  loss.  The  mere  missing,  however,  of  the  feel  of 
it  between  finger  and  thumb  was  not  without  effect. 
Something  unpleasantly  actual  had  fallen  away.  The 
dream  had  returned. 

He  yielded  with  dazed  passivity  to  the  spell.  The 
dream  had  transcendentally  returned — this  and  others, 
this  and  every  dream  worth  dreaming!  All  of  them 
now  were  interfused  .  .  .  blending,  dissolving,  recohering 
.  .  .  old  dreams  and  new  .  .  .  until  at  last,  as  he  stood 
there  losing  himself  in  his  downward  gaze,  one  golden 
dream  dispersed  the  rest — a  dream  of  childhood.  The 
vision  reappeared  to  him  now,  after  the  years.  Once 
again  he  had  found  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  Once  again 
in  memory  he  stood  beside  a  canopied  bed  of  enchant- 
ment; stood,  a  boy,  waist-high,  accoutred  in  knightly 
harness,  doffing  his  morion  of  the  spotless  plume;  and 

J55 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

she  was  there  beneath  him,  a  little  girl,  her  hair  aflame, 
her  face  the  mere  expression  of  a  moonbeam,  her  lips 
just  parted  for  the  freeing  kiss. 

This  vision  reappeared  to  him  now,  after  the  years, 
and  he  watched  it  with  vague,  unknowing  eyes.  Mo- 
ment after  moment  he  stood  there  leaning  against  the 
mast,  looking  idly  downward,  till  the  moon  rode  higher 
in  the  heavens  and  at  last  illumined  the  sleeper's  face. 

With  a  bewildered  motion  of  one  hand,  Enoch  swept 
back  the  hair  from  his  forehead.  Dare  he  test  the  spell  ? 
Dare  he  move?  Scarcely.  He  knew  she  would  go.  Al- 
ways he  had  awakened.  It  would  be  the  same  now  as 
in  his  boyhood.  The  fact  that  finally  those  ever-to-be- 
remembered  shadows  had  been  withdrawn  from  before 
her  face  gave  him  no  surety  of  possession.  Never  was 
covenant  written  in  moonshine ;  rainbows  are  essentially 
of  the  sun.  What  if  he  could  speak  the  Sleeping  Beauty's 
name?  This  was  but  a  dream,  following  like  an  epi- 
logue the  first  one.  Long  ago  he  had  found  her,  now 
he  could  name  her.  Long  ago  he  had  lost  her,  now  he 
would  lose  her  again.  To-night  she  still  was  Mystery — 
passionate-haired,  silver-faced,  unknowable. 

Lloyd  clung  to  the  mere  impalpable  sheen  and  splendor 
of  the  hallucination.  He  knew  he  was  far  from  sleeping. 
Probably,  too,  he  realized  underneath  his  voluntary  sur- 
render to  unreality  that  the  idyl  could  stand  a  prov- 
ing. Doubtless  he  knew  that  by  some  strange  chance 
she  was  really  there — Marion  Lee,  the  girl  of  the  col- 
umned house,  an  actual  Sleeping  Beauty.  Neverthe- 
less, the  faint-heart  stood  long  aloof,  fearing,  as  it  were, 
to  lose  his  lofty  balance,  his  intoxicating  poise  between 
phantasm  and  the  real.  Utterly  oblivious  of  things 
about  him — the  increasing  breeze,  the  tangle  astern  that 
lashed  their  boats  together — utterly  forgetful  or  uncon- 
scious of  the  trailing  rope  behind  him,  he  stood  there 
steeping  himself  in  the  contemplation. 

156 


The  Temple    of   Sleep 

At  last,  as  though  vaguely  troubled,  she  turned, 
breathed  restlessly,  and  lay  on  her  side  with  face  averted. 

The  spell  broke.  He  lost  the  poise.  Her  face  was 
now  in  shadow.  The  old  spirit  of  pursuit,  the  need  of 
her,  reawakened  within  him.  Noiselessly  he  descended 
and  bent  over  her.  Scarcely  breathing,  he  knelt  on  one 
knee  and,  with  chin  in  hand,  resumed  the  thrall  of  gazing. 
Then  gradually  his  expression  changed,  grew  profounder, 
intenser,  less  vague.  Here  was  no  Knight  of  the  Moon 
Rampant,  nor  yet  a  Knight  of  the  Moon  Couchant,  but 
rather  the  chivalrous  figure  of  some  old  picture,  some 
dim -lit  tapestry  —  a  Galahad  kneeling  in  sight  of  the 
Holy  Grail. 

Where  was  she  then?  How  could  he  know?  What 
right  had  he  to  call  her  thence,  only  to  himself?  Near 
as  he  knelt,  there  lay  immeasurable  distances  between 
them.  He  felt  a  strange  hopelessness  in  realizing  that 
all  communion,  under  the  conditions  of  that  absorbing 
moment,  was  inexorably  withheld.  And  if  he  awoke 
her  they  would  be  separated  even  further  by  the  shock 
to  her  reserve.  He  could  not  but  confess  to  himself  that 
she  would  be  justified  in  resenting  his  vigil. 

The  confession  disquieted  his  mood.  Was  he  right  to 
kneel  and  watch  her — in  a  way,  to  possess  her  by  so  in- 
timate a  look?  Awake,  her  eyes  would  have  flashed 
rebuke;  asleep,  the  lids  and  lustrous  lashes,  shrining 
dreams,  were  yet  more  eloquent — blindly  eloquent — of 
reserve.  Her  helplessness  aroused  his  chivalry.  Galahad 
never  looked  at  the  Sacred  Cup.  In  that  ancient  and 
dim  -  lit  tapestry  he  kneels  and  bows  his  head  before  it. 
Something  of  this  olden  reverence  influenced  Lloyd. 
He  lowered  his  gaze,  and  for  a  moment  knelt  so — a  pil- 
grim to  her  nature. 

The  moonlight,  as  it  touched  her  hair,  warmed  into  an 
ambient  glow,  into  a  nimbus  that  seemed  almost  to  con- 
fer its  radiance  on  the  watcher.  In  his  ears  the  rhythm  of 

157 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

her  breathing  suggested  a  whisper  from  the  spirit  of  the 
breeze.  At  last,  on  his  bending  nearer  than  he  knew, 
the  warmth  of  it  touched  his  forehead. 

He  stood  up  as  though  to  retreat  from  something,  then 
forced  himself  to  pause  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of  al- 
most brotherly  protection.  Could  he  go  and  leave  her 
here  sleeping  under  the  dew?  If  chivalry  demanded  his 
absence  before  she  awakened,  the  merest  platonics  de- 
manded his  care.  How  reckless  she  had  been  to  come 
here;  how  imprudent  to  run  the  risk  of  sleep!  The  air 
was  growing  chilly.  Suppose  it  rained!  He  felt  seri- 
ously perplexed.  (Strange  that  the  mutterings  of  the 
merest  platonics  should  so  distress  his  mind.)  What 
ought  he  to  do?  The  situation  was  embarrassing,  to 
say  the  least.  To  wake  her,  said  Chivalry,  would  be 
profanation,  and,  added  Self,  she  would  retire  yet  fur- 
ther from  his  grasp.  To  leave  her,  said  Common-sense, 
would  be  unwise,  because,  added  wild  Anxiety,  she 
might  die  of  a  cold.  To  the  last  conclusion,  which  posi- 
tively forbade  his  leaving,  Self  whispered  low  assent. 
He  could  not  go.  Then  Chivalry,  ever  quixotic,  offered 
a  new  suggestion.  Why  not  return  to  the  house,  tell  her 
father,  and  walk  home?  To  many  so  unusual  a  solu- 
tion might  have  seemed  little  better  than  absurd.  Pity 
these!  With  the  jibers  at  Quixote  they  but  fling  a  joke 
in  that  sorrowful  countenance.  They  listen  for  no  echo 
of  stately  music  in  the  fol-de-rol  of  his  long  rampage. 
To  them  his  helmet  is  a  barber's  ewer;  they  fail  to  ob- 
serve its  faint  reflection  of  the  sun. 

Enoch  turned  and  looked  about  him,  then  started 
with  surprise. 

The  dock  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  shore  had  re- 
ceded into  a  low-lying  shadow  far  behind.  The  two 
boats,  one  in  tow  of  the  other,  were  drifting  seaward 
with  the  tide. 


XV 
A  Declaration   of   Dependence 

THERE  would  have  been  something  of  infinite  con- 
tent in  yielding  to  the  external  and  natural  powers 
that  bore  him  through  the  night  with  Marion,  something 
unspeakably  pleasant  in  acquiescing  to  the  mysterious 
ebb,  the  moon-drawn  tide.  What  a  universe  of  meaning 
to-night  in  the  verb  "to  drift,"  what  ineffable  satis- 
faction in  surrendering  to  nature !  But  no ;  Marion  had 
become  his  charge.  She  was  his,  to  be  protected.  He 
must  put  back  and  spare  her,  if  possible,  all  knowledge 
of  the  voyage.  She  must  wake  where  she  had  fallen 
asleep  and  imagine  nothing.  So  quoth  Galahad  gal- 
lantly. 

He  made  sail.  In  a  moment  The  Ruffian,  with  Ariel 
still  in  tow,  was  beating  back  in  the  face  of  the  wind  and 
tide.  Black  and  angular,  contrasting  strongly  with  the 
ethereal  yawl  behind  her,  she  suggested  some  kind  of 
sword-fish  or  huge  sea-urchin,  having  for  driver  a  nereid 
shining  in  her  wake. 

Enoch  glanced  at  the  Ariel's  painter  to  make  sure  it 
was  fast.  Yes,  on  one  of  the  stern  cleats ;  and  apparently 
it  had  been  made  so  not  by  chance  but  purpose,  as  if 
Marion  in  visiting  here  had  moored  her  craft  to  his, 
intending,  no  doubt,  to  remain  aboard  The^Rufflan  but 
a  moment  instead  of — how  long?  How  long?  An  hour 
— two — three?  He  had  had  no  mind  for  measuring  time. 
Of  this,  however,  he  felt  certain:  they  had  drifted  far 
from  Bristol.  Already  the  town  lights  were  sparse  along 

159 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

the  water.  Evidently  most  of  the  inhabitants  were 
sleeping.  At  either  side,  on  the  long,  rolling  shores  that 
seemed  now  to  be  passing  astern  with  a  serpentine  mo- 
tion, the  scattered  windows  of  farmers'  and  fishermen's 
houses  were  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

The  little  clouds  by  now  had  flurried  into  a  windy 
drift  which  flung  its  folds  across  the  moon.  The  moment 
was  dark.  Only  the  great  gleam  from  Slocum's  light- 
ship stretched  towards  them  far  ahead,  like  a  finger 
groping  for  the  truants.  Lloyd  realized  that  he  must 
have  passed  the  gaunt,  black  hull  without  even  thinking 
of  its  proximity.  He  could  regain  it  far  less  easily. 

A  bell  rang.  From  Bristol,  over  the  water,  its  peal — 
stentorian,  dolorous,  inexorable — reached  his  ears.  It 
was  the  deep  voice  of  a  spire-clock,  and  again  it  tolled. 
Impatiently  he  counted. 

Three  .  .  .  Four  .  .  .  Five.  .  .  . 

What  sound  more  indescribably  controlling  than  this 
of  a  mellow  bell  at  night  beyond  the  water?  It  leaves  an 
impression  on  the  ears  consonant  with  that  on  the  eyes 
of  a  sovereign  though  melancholy  color.  In  some  sub- 
liminal region,  where  the  senses  blend,  purple  is  prob- 
ably its  unison — royal,  funereal  purple. 

Six  .  „  .  Seven  .  .  .  Eight.  .  .  .  Slow,  sonorous,  reverber- 
ant, the  native  measure  of  evening. 

Nine^. .  .  Ten  .  . .  Eleven.  . .  .  Mournful,  dominant,  un- 
equivocal, the  typical  monotone  of  Time. 

Twelve.  ...  A  long,  last  stroke,  the  knell  of  one  more 
day  forever  gone. 

Then  silence,  appallingly  profound. 

Marion  stirred.  Either  the  bell  or  a  more  delicate  in- 
fluence, bora  of  their  newly  begun  resistance  to  the  wind 
and  tide,  was  militating  against  her  slumber.  Or  per- 
haps yet  a  subtler  sense  was  waking  her — the  sense  of 
that  after-silence. 

She  turned  restlessly;  her  eyes  opened;  she  sat  up. 
160 


A   Declaration   of   Dependence 

Lloyd  was  sensitive  of  an  indefinable  instinct  against 
meeting  her  eyes  in  their  first  astonishment.  He  glanced 
instead  at  the  mast-head,  to  survey  the  fluttering  pen- 
nant with  the  air  of  a  skipper  attentive  only  to  boat  and 
breeze.  Presently  he  felt  her  gaze.  Doubtless  at  first 
she  had  been  looking  abroad,  up  and  around,  in  bewil- 
derment; then  suddenly  the  figure  of  her  captain  had 
sprung  into  being  at  her  side. 

A  low  exclamation  of  surprise,  almost  a  cry,  escaped 
her. 

Enoch,  skipper  no  longer,  lowered  his  glance  to  meet 
her  own.  There  in  her  luminous  eyes,  usually  so  tran- 
quil, dew-gray,  sea-deep,  something  sensitive  and  dis- 
turbed suggested  a  reflection  of  the  tremulous  pennant 
at  the  mast-head.  Her  lashes  fluttered ;  she  looked  away. 
Her  glance  took  in  the  shadow-line  of  land,  the  light- 
ship's gleam,  the  fretting  water.  It  rested  a  moment  on 
the  harbor  lights.  That  was  Bristol,  doubtless,  and  there 
the  Mount  Hope  shore. 

The  moon  now  sailed  through  a  narrowing  isthmus  of 
cloud. 

Marion  turned  to  Enoch.  "What  does  it  mean?"  She 
stole  a  glance  at  his  face — a  puzzling  profile,  pale-bronze 
in  the  moonlight  before  the  sail.  "  What  does  it  mean?" 

He  studied  the  darkness  ahead  of  them  mysteriously. 
"That's  what  I  am  wondering." 

"Wondering?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  wonder  what  it  all 
means?" 

"  I  am  not  speaking  about  it  all." 

"But  I  am." 

"  By  what  right  ?     I  merely  asked  how  this  happened." 

"Who  knows?" 

"  Did  you  set  us  adrift  on  purpose?" 
"  161 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

"No;  I  wish  I  had!" 

"Why?" 

"To  show  you  my  desperation." 

"That's  a  strong  word." 

"So  it  should  be." 

"An  exaggerative  word." 

"It  can't  be." 

He  looked  ahead;  then  a  moment  of  silence,  while  she 
covertly  scanned  his  profile.  The  brow  was  a  poet's, 
the  nose  a  thoroughbred's,  the  lips  a  lover's,  the  chin  an 
obstinate  child's. 

She  refused  to  accept  his  metaphorical  trend,  timid  at 
heart  in  view  of  its  danger.  After  studying  at  a  glimpse 
the  irregular  lines  of  his  features,  she  turned  to  the  more 
interpretable  horizon.  "Don't  you  think  we'd  better 
take  the  western  channel?  It's  longer,  but  the  tide  is 
not  so  strong." 

He  nodded.     "  I  am  going  to." 

Her  voice  was  low.     "  It  must  be  very  late." 

He  smiled,  felt  the  tiller  sensitive  to  his  grasp,  and 
seemed  to  gain  thereby  in  power.  "It  is  never  too 
late." 

The  lights  kindled  from  his  eyes  to  hers,  but  her  lashes 
drooped  and  veiled  them.  "  It  is  sometimes  too  early." 

At  this  he  frowned,  boylike,  hesitant,  wondering  if  she 
was  right  and  the  time  had  not  yet  come. 

In  the  silence  she  looked  back  at  her  yawl,  at  the  knot 
that  held  it  in  tow,  and  straightway  became  more  ani- 
mated. 

"Then  you  really  did  not  cast  off  on  purpose?" 

"No,  it  was  fate."  He  pointed  to  the  knot.  "That 
is  the  bond  of  destiny.  It  lashes  our  boats  together." 

"  No,  it  can't  be  destiny." 

"  How  do  you  know?" 

"  Because  I  did  it  myself." 

"Oh!" 

162 


A   Declaration    o£   Dependence 

"Yes,  but  you  had  told  me  you  were  going  to  walk 
home.  Otherwise  I  would  not  for  one  instant — " 

" Of  course,  of  course;  I  know,"  he  interrupted,  almost 
bitterly.  "Don't  you  suppose  I  realize  that  you  saw 
me  start  for  home?  Nothing  would  have  induced  you 
to  run  the  risk  of  being  discovered.  The  thought  of  my 
finding  you  in  my  boat,  asleep,  would  have  been  unbear- 
able to  you.  I  know  that  well  enough.  You  consider 
me  positively  obnoxious." 

To  this  she  opposed  not  even  a  gesture,  but  loftily  sur- 
veyed the  stars. 

"Am  I  not?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"Tell  me." 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Where's  the  use?  You  are  so  un- 
approachable you  might  as  well  be  up  there  " — indicating 
the  firmament  at  large — "alone  on  a  star,  or  the  moon; 
yes,  better  the  moon,  it  must  be  so  cold,  so  well  suited — " 
He  broke  off  suddenly.  "No,  no;  I  don't  mean  that! 
Down  deep  you're  not  like  this.  I  won't  believe  it.  I 
can't!  Even  if  you  did  live  up  in  a  star,  I'd  never  say 
die;  I'd  try  to  reach  you;  I'd  bring  you  back  to  the 
throbbing  earth  and  prove  that  the  heart  of  it  was  in 
you."  He  paused,  noticing  the  quicker  motion  of  her 
breast.  Her  head  was  bent,  her  eyes  downcast;  her 
hands  had  joined  each  other  closely  in  her  lap.  "When 
I  saw  you  asleep  I  thought  of  this.  I  imagined  you 
there  above — immeasurably  aloof.  For  an  instant  I 
longed  to  wake  you,  to  bring  you  back.  I  was  jealous 
of  the  stars.  And  yet  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  do  it.  Your 
sleep  seemed  sacred  to  me — your  solitude." 

She  looked  up  slowly.  "But  now  that  I  am  awake, 
you — " 

"No,  never!  What  have  I  said?  Forgive  me.  Per- 
haps it  is  too  soon,  but  somehow  I  know  as  positively  as 

163 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

I  know  anything  that  you  and  I — "  He  was  interrupt- 
ed by  circumstance.  From  close  ahead  came  a  sibilant 
sound  of  hissing. 

A  crescent  of  silver  spray  sparkled  full  in  their  course, 
out  of  which  a  familiar  object,  stern  and  forbidding,  jut- 
ted high.  It  was  the  lightless  beacon  of  the  reef  in  mid- 
harbor.  Lloyd,  with  a  shove,  steered  wide. 

"You  would  have  run  us  into  it!" 

"Well,  what  then?  I  think  it  might  have  been  a  good 
plan.  You  need  something  like  that  to  wake  you  into 
life — an  accident,  a  crisis,  danger." 

"Do  I?"  She  laughed  for  the  first  time.  The  light- 
less  beacon  had  broken  the  spell.  His  eloquence  could 
not  offset  the  warning  of  that  irritating  spume.  "The 
wind,"  she  said,  "is  increasing." 

"Very  little." 

"  Look  at  that  cloud." 

He  carelessly  surveyed  a  whirl  of  gusty  shadow  to  the 
northward.  "Yes,  I've  been  watching  it.  Angry,  is  it 
not?" 

"Decidedly.     How  about  reefing?" 

"No." 

"Would  it  not  be  safer?" 

"Yes;  but  remember,"  he  laughed,  with  apparent 
recklessness,  "you  need  danger!" 

For  an  instant  her  eyes  had  the  timid,  sensitive  look, 
the  stir  of  the  breeze-troubled  pennant  at  the  mast-head. 
It  was  almost  as  though  the  pennant  itself  were  a  flick- 
ering light  in  them.  She  edged  nearer  to  the  stern 
rail. 

The  feel  of  the  wind  in  his  face  roused  Lloyd.  He 
knew  what  was  coming  and  was  ready  for  it.  His  air  of 
rashness  was  partly  assumed.  Every  inch  of  him  had 
the  fling  of  piracy.  He  gripped  the  tiller  hard  and 
faced  her.  "  I  can't  help  it!  You  drive  me  wild!  Merely 
being  near  you —  But  no,  I'll  wait.  Only  tell  me, 

164 


A   Declaration   otf   Dependence 

was  it  you  on  the  shore  last  night?  I  know  it  was,  but 
you  must  confess  it.  Say  yes." 

"Must?" 

"Must!" 

"And  what  if  I  don't?" 

He  pushed  the  tiller  down,  whereat  the  sail  flapped 
idle  in  the  wind,  waiting.  "  Then  we  put  about  and  sail 
to  the  open  sea." 

"No,  no;  you  wouldn't!" 

"You  don't  know  me."  He  looked  ahead,  feigning 
an  inflexible  air,  his  face  bold-bronze  in  cut  and  color. 

The  sail  flapped  loudly.  One  of  'Marion's  hands  was 
behind  her.  Strangely  enough,  she  seemed  little  to  fear 
his  mediaeval  outlawry.  Her  wit  could  outplay  his  brig- 
andage; it  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  and  under  it  a  paradox- 
ically feminine  look  of  admiration  for  the  brigand.  The 
game  excited  her.  It  was  now  touch  and  go  between 
capture  and  escape.  Could  she  draw  the  yawl  nearer 
without  being  seen  ?  How  in  the  world  could  she  man- 
age to  slip  aboard  it  and  elude  his  vigilance?  Pirate 
that  he  was,  he  would  probably  even  dare  to  hold  her. 
Oh,  if  only  something  would  happen  to  divert  his  atten- 
tion !  While  his  face  was  averted  her  fingers  worried  the 
knot.  They  almost  bled. 

To  him,  though,  when  he  glanced  towards  her,  she  ap- 
peared merely  to  be  using  an  arm  as  a  cushion  for  her 
back.  "Decide,"  said  he,  grasping  the  tiller  as  though 
for  a  final  shove. 

"  No,  not  now!     Look,  look!" 

But  Enoch  was  looking  already.  He  laughed  aloud. 
"  Don't  you  suppose  I  see  it?" 

Down  the  bay  rushed  a  line  of  spray  like  a  million 
whip-lashes  cracked  from  the  depths.  He  sprang  to  the 
halyards  and  dropped  the  sail.  The  squall  struck  them 
full  in  the  face.  A  moment  of  chaos,  of  blinding,  tin- 
gling, drenching,  biting  torment;  a  moment  of  awe,  of 

165 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

unasked,  unanswerable  questions,  unthinking  breathless- 
ness;  a  moment  of  seeing  nothing  but  darkness  pierced 
by  the  drunken,  reeling  mast,  beating  time  to  pande- 
monium! Then  away  raced  the  Furies  out  to  sea. 

Lloyd  turned  for  a  word  to  Marion.  It  died  on  his 
tongue.  She  was  gone;  once  again  inexorably  she  was 
gone.  Had  the  Furies  caught  her  from  him  ?  Had — 

Heavily  the  gusty  shadow  whirled  from  the  moon. 
At  once  he  understood.  There  lay  the  yawl,  scarce  a 
rope's-throw  astern,  and  its  little,  white,  winglike  main- 
sail was  being  raised  for  flight. 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  caught  his  halyards  and  hoisted 
the  patched,  gray  canvas  of  The  Ruffian;  then  to  the 
tiller  again,  and  he  put  about,  bore  down  on  the  fugitive 
craft  while  yet  her  peak  hung  low.  But  the  wing  of 
Ariel  was  quicker  still.  It  rose  at  once  to  its  full  spread. 
Enoch  saw  Marion  spring  to  the  tiller.  Already  he  was 
abreast  of  the  frightened  yawl.  The  whole  soul  of  the 
boy  leaped  up  to  plead  for  surrender.  Similarly  thus 
in  childhood  he  had  once  cried  out,  in  a  dream,  when 
Sleeping  Beauty  had  melted  into  darkness;  had  cried  out 
— and  was  awake.  So  again  goes  the  golden  dream,  all 
in  an  instant.  Oh,  to  grasp  it  and  hold  it  fast! 

"Miss  Lee!  Wait!"  He  saw  her  face  turned  towards 
him,  saw  her  hair  snaring  the  moon-rays  to  wreathe  with 
light  her  oval  face.  And  her  eyes  were  mysteriously  un- 
certain. And  her  hand  on  the  tiller  wavered.  The 
little  white  sail  hung  tentative  in  the  wind. 

"Miss  Lee" 

"What?" 

"Oh — Marion!" 

Her  palm  trembled  on  the  helm. 

' '  Wait !     Listen  to  me !     You  must ! ' ' 

The  tiller  moved. 

"Marion,!  love  you!" 

Her  hand  pushed  the  helm  half  down. 

166 


A   Declaration   of   Dependence 

"I  love  you!" 

Down  went  the  tiller,  hard.  The  little  white  sail 
sprang  alive.  Ariel,  dormant  no  longer,  leaped  into  be- 
ing; her  gunwale  dipped,  every  rope  had  become  a 
nerve. 

So  went  Marion,  till  at  last  the  lines  of  her  slender,  Hel- 
lenic figure,  solitary  in  the  stern,  and  tranquil,  were  miss- 
ing in  the  dark.  So  went  Ariel,  till  only  a  track  of 
whispering  ripples  told  of  her  course. 

Lloyd  watched  the  play  of  the  foam.  Gradually  a 
look  suggesting  its  reflection — an  artificial  sparkle,  the 
look  of  a  trifler — stole  into  his  eyes.  Lighting  his  pipe, 
he  lay  out  on  a  cushion,  and  with  an  air  of  easy  idleness 
pleasantly  bothered  himself  in  trying  to  recall  a  pop- 
ular tune. 

At  break  of  day,  Slocum,  anxious  in  spite  of  him- 
self, sat  on  the  deck  of  his  light -ship,  scowling  at  the 
dawn.  Then  along  came  a  rakish,  rough  -  looking  sail- 
boat out  of  the  south  and  changed  the  scowl  to  a  crusty 
smile. 

"H'loa!     That  you,  Enoch?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  be  you?" 

"Never  better." 

"Whar've  you  ben?" 

"Wandering  round." 

"Squall  strike  you?" 

"No." 

"What!     I'll  be— " 

"Oh  yes,  I  forgot." 

"  Forgot!     Crazy  as  ever!     Wai,  good  luck.  " 

Enoch  waved  an  arm  and  glided  homeward,  humming 
gayly  in  the  morning. 

Said  Slocum  to  himself:  "  He's  happy  as  a  pup!"  By 
which  conclusion  the  light-ship's  master  revealed  to  the 

167 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

air  the  fact  that  a  cuttle-fish  is  not,  as  a  rule,  conversant 
with  the  affairs  of  men. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Marion  Lee,  as  she  un- 
dressed that  night,  appeared  to  find  fault  with  her  an- 
tique mirror.  Standing  before  it,  her  hair  streaming 
about  her  shoulders,  she  passed  a  hand  over  the  surface 
of  the  glass,  as  though  it  were  possible  to  wipe  away  the 
mist  of  years. 


XVI 
The    Letters   that   Crossed 

THE  words  of  his  letter  glowed.     They  flared,  so  to 
speak,  from  the  last  spark,  which  either  reignites 
the  blaze  or  expires  unsuccessful. 

"DEAR  Miss  LEE, — You  cannot  possibly  understand  how 
much  this  means  to  me.  Night  before  last  I  sat  on  the 
shore  alone — alone  with  failure — ignored.  Then  suddenly, 
like  a  spirit  of  hope,  shaming  all  thoughts  of  failure,  you 
came!  I  saw  you  touch  my  book  to  your  lips.  It  was 
a  reward  greater  than  all  the  world's  praise  could  have 
been — greater  even  than  my  own  deep  conviction  that  I 
had  written  well.  How  can  I  make  you  appreciate  my 
happiness  in  that  moment  ?  How  can  I  show  you  my  heart 
as  it  was  when  we  stood  facing  each  other — kindred  selves  ? 
Yes,  we  must  be  that.  You  alone  have  understood.  Your 
voice — your  lasting  voice — says  again — a  thousand  times 
again — to  me, '  The  book  is  yours  and  mine." 

"And  yet  you  have  failed  me.  Each  time,  without  a 
word,  you  have  gone  away. 

"Why — why  should  you  not  make  good  that  first  mystic 
promise?  Yes,  it  seemed  indeed  a  promise  of  some  unim- 
aginable benefit  to  me — to  you — to  both  of  us — together. 

"I  believe  that  with  your  eyes  looking  into  mine  as  they 
did  then,  that  with  your  voice  repeating  its  clear  encourage- 
ment, I  could  do  great  things — things  worthy  even  of  you. 

"Last  night,  when  your  indifference,  your  maddening 
elusiveness,  and  finally  your  cruel  flight,  so  tormented  me, 
I  said  perhaps  too  much.  I  said  I  loved  you.  God  knows 
if  that  is  true.  I  feel  as  deeply  as  you  must  that  love  is 
never  proved  by  one  impetuous  word.  I  may  not  love  you, 

169 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

Marion.  Who  can  predict  that  one  of  us  two  shall  ever 
truly  love  the  other?  But  one  thing  is  sure — certain  as  life 
and  death — I  need  you  now. 

"And  so  I  ask  you,  let  us  be  companions,  friends — open, 
sincere  friends.  You  shall  hear  of  my  hopes  and  ambi- 
tions; you  will  be  my  muse,  encouraging  and  uplifting  me 
to  higher  endeavor  always.  You  can  do  that — your  eyes 
can,  your  voice  can,  your  mind  and  spirit  can — then  do! 

"  I  need  you.     I  seem  to  exist  only  for  your  answer. 

"ENOCH  LLOYD." 

It  was  Slocum  who  bore  the  missive.  He  had  rowed 
to  Mount  Hope  for  a  confab  in  the  morning.  Starting 
back,  he  skirted  the  shore. 

A  figure  on  land,  at  the  same  hour,  slowly  skirted  the 
water.  It  was  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  Neces- 
sarily the  two  passed.  And  the  second  was  likewise  a 
messenger. 

"  How  goes  it,  Timothy?     Walkin'  fer  health?" 

"Maybe.  I  suppose  you're  rowing  for  the  same  rea- 
son." 

"Mebbe." 

Thus  they  passed,  each  taciturnly  guarding  the  secret 
of  his  mission.  Never  a  moment  of  loquacity,  a  word  of 
gossip.  And  only  Dame  Gossip  could  have  saved  the 
day!  She  might  have  revealed  the  fact  that  the  verdict 
in  Timothy's  pocket  was  by  no  means  founded  on  the 
plea  in  Slocum's.  But  no ;  if  the  dame  speaks  when  she 
should  be  silent,  she  purses  her  lips  when  a  word  might 
right  the  wrong.  Her  tongue,  whether  wagging  or  tied, 
works  mischief.  Her  silence  is  never  golden.  We  know 
well  enough  the  devil  she  wakes  by  talking;  but  what 
of  the  angel  she  lulls  by  keeping  still  ? 

No  doubt  an  angel  overslept  himself  that  morning — 
a  needed  guardian — and  the  devil  patrolled  the  shore. 

Yet  who  in  his  sober  senses  could  have  expected  a  re- 
sponse so  soon?  Ah,  but  he  had  been  waiting — impa- 

170 


The    Letters    that   Crossed 

tiently,  desperately  waiting — through  what  had  seemed 
an  interminable  stretch  of  time. 

"  DEAR  MR.  LLOYD, — I  trust  you  will  not  think  me  harsh, 
but  owing  to  the  episode  of  last  evening,  I  must  ask  you 
not  even  to  consider  me  an  acquaintance.  I  mean — not 
even  to  call.  Yours  sincerely, 

"MARION     LEE." 


Book    III 


The   Top   Floor   Front 

IN  the  foreground,  behold  a  mountain  of  gingham 
swept  by  the  breezes  of  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

Madame  Moreau  was  congratulating  herself  on  being 
the  possessor  of  an  enterprising  spirit.  Yet  why  had  she 
failed  earlier  in  life  to  effect  the  remarkable  coup  which 
now  so  exhilarated  her  ambition  ?  The  upper  stories  had 
for  years  gone  begging.  How  absurd  to  have  been  con- 
tent with  the  ground  floor!  Quel  betise!  What  is  a 
restaurant,  no  matter  how  excellent  the  cuisine,  no  mat- 
ter how  popular  the  liberties  of  the  place,  compared  with 
a  nice  little  pension — hotel,  she  began  to  call  it — where 
bachelors  could  come  and  live  at  a  modest  rate  (one  dol- 
lar a  day  and  tout  compris),  just  as  of  old  in  the  rue 
Monsieur  le  Prince  at  half  the  price  and  twice  the  mis- 
chief? 

Oh,  why,  thought  she,  do  these  inspirations  dawdle  so 
long  outside  one's  head?  Why  can't  they  pop  in  and 
beatify  youth,  give  it  a  chance  when  life  is  a  fling  and 
the  heart  hasn't  yet  such  a  mass  of  flesh  to  submerge  it? 

In  casting  about  for  an  explanation  of  her  protracted 
oversight,  the  worthy  Mere  Moreau  naturally  fell  upon 
the  imagined  cause  of  all  her  troubles — namely  Monsieur 
Moreau  himself. 

He  sat  at  present  beside  her  on  the  stoop  of  their  met- 
amorphosed restaurant.  As  usual,  he  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  some  inner  joke,  some  secret,  eternal  jest,  a 
whimsicality  perhaps  so  abstract  and  indefinable  as 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

to  spring  only  from  the  comedy  of  human  existence. 
Fat,  young-looking,  short,  bright -eyed,  Parisian,  with 
waxed  mustache  and  imperial,  he  suggested  an  over- 
grown gamin  who,  though  come  at  last  to  his  own  and 
the  responsibilities  of  half  a  century,  could  not  disguise 
the  gamin's  heart  with  all  his  affected  silences  and  scru- 
pulosity of  attire. 

He  sat  looking  out  with  affable  irony  northward  over 
Washington  Square.  It  was  an  evening  early  in  Sep- 
tember, hot,  humid,  oppressive,  and  the  city  boiled  its 
inhabitants  like  a  gigantic  pot.  Under  a  light  near  by, 
three  or  four  ragamuffins  were  lazily  pitching  pennies 
towards  the  curb.  One  of  them,  waiting  his  turn,  filliped 
a  cent  high  in  air,  dropped  it,  and  went  on  all-fours,  mon- 
key-like, in  the  gutter.  Call  the  copper  a  sou,  and  there 
is  Moreau  the  gamin,  quick  at  the  beginning  of  his  greed 
in  the  shadows  of  Notre  Dame.  How  pleasant  is  remi- 
niscence! Pouf!  He  blew  the  smoke  of  his  Caporal 
heavenward  with  satisfaction.  Comparisons  like  his 
were  never  odious.  He  smiled  at  the  trees  and  the 
benches.  Here  and  there  sat  shop-girls,  lolling  their 
frowsy  heads  in  the  arms  of  factory-boys  who  droned 
love — love  good,-  bad,  and  indifferent — into  the  ears  at 
their  lips,  with  unmentionable  slang.  Now  and  then, 
louder  than  the  rest,  a  couple  buzzed  noisily,  like  flies 
on  a  window-pane.  From  others  never  a  whisper,  their 
public  embrace  defying  even  slang  to  express  content- 
ment. 

Their  moon  was  an  arc-light ! 

Overhead  the  leafage,  brown  and  wilting,  hung  motion- 
less— a  wide  expanse  of  shadow  streaked  yellow  by  the 
glare.  Far  beyond,  at  the  foot  of  the  long  avenue,  whose 
dwellings  now  were  empty  and  sombre  with  heavy  hoard- 
ings over  doors  and  windows,  the  great,  white  arch 
loomed  ghostly,  like  the  entrance  to  a  street  of  tombs. 

Monsieur  Moreau  seemed  to  prefer  the  nearer  pros- 

176 


The   Top    Floor   Front 

pect,  the  patches  of  tousled  hair  and  faces  leaning  against 
them.  How  beautiful  is  love,  and  how  amusing!  Change 
their  slang  to  the  argot  of  the  Quarter,  and  there  buzzes 
Moreau  again,  with  a  girl  of  the  quais  and  alleys.  He 
could  remember  a  bench  in  the  Garden  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, could  recall  a  small  grisette,  and  how  with  a  dar- 
ing smirk  he  had  edged  towards  her.  "  Hola,  ma  bich' !" 
says  little  Moreau,  with  the  leer  and  language  of  the 
Boul'-Mich'.  "Your  contour,  ma  p'tite,  is  like  that  of  a 
statuette  there  in  the  gallery.  But  that  is  so  cold,  and 
you — "  He  paused  in  the  recollection.  Madame  of  to- 
day had  risen  to  her  feet.  He  cocked  an  eye  at  the 
hugeous  mound  and  smiled  yet  more  ironically.  Et 
bien,  this  is  droll.  The  statuette — pouf !  went  a  spiral  of 
smoke  in  air — p'tite,  indeed!  Contemplating  again  the 
amorous  benchers,  his  eyes,  narrowing  with  satire,  as- 
sumed a  sort  of  sardonic  sympathy.  So  will  it  be  with 
these.  Pity  the  arm  that's  a  pillow  in  twenty  years! 
Pauvre  bras !  What  a  burden !  Pity  the  gourmet  with 
a  palate  for  pastry  and  a  meal  of  dough.  He  glanced  at 
madame  the  meal. 

On  the  pavement  before  the  stoop,  her  back  to  the 
squalid  paradise  of  lovers,  she  stood  planted,  this  moun- 
tain of  white  gingham,  her  ample  summit  serene  in  the 
breezes  of  the  palm-leaf  fan.  Proudly  she  was  viewing  a 
long  sign-board  which  in  gilt  capitals  announced  to  raga- 
muffins and  gods  of  the  benches,  "The  Washington 
Hotel." 

How  bland  she  looked  at  fifty!  This,  at  least,  was  to 
be  approved.  Quoth  monsieur  to  himself,  "Not  so  the 
grisette."  Piff!  what  a  fury  when  he  had  over-patron- 
ized the  wine-shop  or  shown  a  liberal  taste  in  the  matter 
of  statuettes!  What  a  firebrand,  what  a  madcap  at  the 
coming  of  Quatorze  Juillet!  Well,  and  why  not?  Her 
grandmother  (hinted  a  slab  at  Mont  Parnasse)  had  lived 
in  Paris  before  Napoleon.  Possibly  the  name  of  one's 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

grandmother  could  be  guessed  at  with  reasonable  cer- 
tainty. And  probably  madame  of  the  Terror  wac  by  no 
means  above  a  little  deviltry  herself.  Hinted  the  shad- 
ows of  the  rue  des  Anglais,  she  had  brought  home  one 
night  in  her  pannier,  after  a  holiday  under  the  guillo- 
tine, something  that  was  neither  a  pumpkin  nor  a 
squash!  Queer  that  the  descendant  of  a  wolf  should 
develop  into  a  cow!  How  entertaining  to  trace  the 
course  of  little  destinies ;  to  wonder  concerning  this  and 
that ;  meanwhile  to  twirl  one's  mustache  and  smile  with 
assumed  vacuity  at  madame  the  cow ! 

But  finally  that  harmless  animal  sat  down.  Over- 
come by  the  exertion  of  standing,  she  sank  beside  the 
seeming  cause  of  all  her  troubles  with  a  sigh.  "Jules," 
said  she,  "why  did  you  prevent  me  so  long  from  think- 
ing of  this?" 

Monsieur  shook  his  head  apologetically  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  What  need  to  assert  a  prior  claim?  Let 
her  take  all  the  praise.  He  derived  a  peculiar  satis- 
faction from  harmless  humbug.  He  was  content  that 
nothing  should  be  genuine  save  the  coins  that  came  over 
his  counter.  And  these,  from  a  new  customer,  he  was 
wont  to  bite  with  an  absent-minded  air,  whereat  he 
would  start,  as  though  shocked  by  the  breach  of  polite- 
ness. "  What  need  of  this,  m'sieur,  in  America?  It  is  a 
detestable  habit  of  my  childhood." 

In  the  present  instance,  no  less  apologetic,  he  turned 
to  madame  with  a  penitent  look,  as  who  should  say,  "I 
am  indeed  a  burden  to  you."  Always  the  humility  of 
that  glance  had  worked  wonders.  What  else  in  the 
days  and  nights  of  the  petit  verre  had  saved  him  from 
this  granddaughter  of  the  Terror?  And  how  much  more 
efficacious  when  the  tactic  met  but  an  imaginary  griev- 
ance! Nowadays,  in  his  regenerate  state,  wrongs,  of 
course,  could  be  only  fancied.  Nevertheless,  this  pleas- 
ant little  habit  of  complaint  would  cling  to  madame  for- 

178 


The  Top   Floor   Front 

ever.  Almost  she  would  have  blamed  him  for  the  irregu- 
larities of  climate.  To-night,  however,  her  satisfaction 
could  not  easily  be  concealed. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  she — "well  and  good.  Keep 
silence,  if  you  like.  We're  at  last,  thanks  to  me,  on  the 
road  to  riches." 

Monsieur  edged  nearer  to  obtain  a  share  of  the  palm- 
leaf's  breeze.  Suavely  he  seemed  to  admit  her  supe- 
riority by  a  show  of  glances  definable  only — such  was 
their  fervor,  such  their  eloquence — as  gesticulations  of 
the  eyes. 

Once  again  this  ocular  pantomime  mollified  madame. 
She  consented  not  only  to  share  the  breeze,  but  to  use 
the  plural  pronoun.  Instead  of  "I,"  it  was  henceforth 
"we,"  merely  as  a  matter  of  courtesy.  Said  she  with  a 
sigh  of  contentment,  "We  have  done  a  fine  thing.  This 
is  big.  It  is  money  -  making.  It  is  American!  'The 
Washington  Hotel!'  '  (Another  sigh  from  the  sub- 
merged heart.)  "And  yet  I  shall  keep  the  sign  of  the 
Caniche  Blanc  as  a  souvenir  of  our  beginnings." 

He  inclined  his  head  in  silence.  How  sweet  are  the 
sentiments  of  woman! 

"And  whenever  I  look,"  she  continued,  tenderly,  "at 
the  great  sign  of  the  Washington  Hotel,  I  shall  think  of 
the  old  one."  For  a  moment  she  was  dumb  with  emo- 
tion, then  talkative  again  with  importance.  "Did  you 
read  about  us  in  the  paper  to-day?" 

Moreau  pricked  up  his  ears  and  scrutinized  her.  As 
usual,  her  bland  face  told  him  nothing.  He  smiled  with 
a  trace  of  bitterness.  "  You  are  making  a  joke." 

Her  head,  big  with  a  mass  of  black  and  oily  hair,  shook 
in  ponderous  denial.  "Do  I  ever?" 

"No,  you  couldn't." 

"Couldn't!" 

"  I  mean  couldn't  have  the  heart,  my  dear,  when  I  am 
so  impatient — " 

179 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

"  Impatient?  Then  listen."  She  stopped  fanning  and 
smoothed  the  plateau  of  gingham  that  formed  her  lap. 
"It  is  true.  The  gentleman  of  the  top  floor  front  show- 
ed me.  I  know  every  word.  'Another  landmark,'  it 
said,  '  has  vanished.  The  sign  of  the  White  Poodle, 
long  familiar  to  Bohemians,  has  disappeared  from  the 
little  restaurant  of  that  name  on  the  south  side  of  Wash- 
ington Square.  The  success  of  the  proprietors  has  en- 
abled them  to  lease  the  entire  building  for  hotel  pur- 
poses.' ' 

Madame  had  mouthed  the  journalistic  sentences  as 
best  she  could.  They  were  scarcely  conducive  to  orator- 
ical effect,  yet  on  the  emotions  of  Monsieur  Moreau  they 
beat  like  splendid  periods.  "Bravo!"  cried  he.  "Bra- 
vissimo!" 

Madame,  resuming  the  palm-leaf,  slowly  waved  it  to 
and  fro  with  queenly  pride. 

The  eyes  of  her  consort  fairly  glistened.  "The  top 
floor  front,"  said  he,  "will  have  a  better  opinion  of  us." 

The  queen  frowned  in  slight  displeasure.  "No,  he 
thinks  we've  been  unwise;  he  says  it  is  too  bad.  " 

"  What  does  he  know  about  us?" 

"Nothing,  of  course." 

"  He's  from  out  of  town,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  I  think." 

Monsieur  assumed  an  air  of  consultation.  It  was  so 
amusing  to  ask  her  advice  in  a  matter  of  importance. 
"Do  you  not  consider  that  after  such  a  notice  we  must 
raise  the  price  of  every  one,  and  especially  the  top  floor 
front?" 

Again  the  breeze  died  to  a  calm.  Madame  inspected 
her  fan  gravely.  "  He  seems  poor." 

"So?     Well,  what  does  he  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  is  in  his  room  all  day,  and  the  gas 
burns  till  morning." 

"Does  he  work?" 

1 80 


The   Top   Floor   Front 

"  How  do  I  know?     His  door  is  shut,  always." 

"Yes,  but  you  arrange  his  room." 

"The  desk  is  locked,  and  the  chiffonnier.  He  is  a 
mystery." 

"So?  Well,  well,  then  let  us  wait.  Where  there's  a 
mystery,  one  must  crawl."  Monsieur  said  it  craftily, 
foreseeing  her  opposition  where  he  wished  it. 

"No,"  she  objected,  "I'm  not  sure.  Perhaps  we 
should  make  him  pay  more.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I  think 
so.  Take  my  advice,  we'd  better." 

He  twirled  the  points  of  his  mustache  to  cover  a  smile. 
"Of  course  you  know  best,  che*rie,  but  I  suspect  the  top 
floor  front.  I  believe  he  is  a  writer  of  something  secret. 
How  can  I  tell  what?  Impossible!  And  yet  I  have 
heard  his  typewriting-machine  go  clickety-tap,  click-tap, 
day  and  night  ever  since  he  has  been  here." 

Madame  turned  with  a  frown,  vexed  by  his  rivalry  in 
spying. 

"Ah,  the  key-hole!"  said  she,  witheringly,  in  scorn. 

He  appeared  grieved.     "Oh,  ma  chere — " 

"Well,  and  what  if  he  is  a  writer?" 

"  Nothing,  only  writers  cannot  as  a  rule  pay — " 

"  Pooh!  How  do  you  know?  Besides,  we  must  raise 
the  prices  of  every  one.  If  he  don't  pay,  let  him  go  to 
the  Bowery." 

Monsieur  nodded.  "I  believe  you  are  right,  be'be',  as 
usual."  He  patted  her  fat  hand.  (Why  not?  In  a 
year  she  would  be  saying,  "I  told  you  so.  How  much 
wiser  it  was  to  raise  prices !  But  for  me  you  would  be  a 
pauper!")  He  rested  a  hand  on  her  knee.  (Pourquoi 
non?  So  sits  the  Sultan,  they  say,  with  one  hand  rest- 
ing on  a  cushion.)  "We've  taken  a  long  leap,"  said  he, 
"  from  the  days  and  the  ways  of  St.  Germain."  He 
glanced  up  cautiously  at  an  open  window  of  the  top 
story,  then  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "But, 
helas,  there  are  shady  characters  everywhere!" 

181 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

Madame  started.     "You  believe  that?" 

He  shrugged. 

"No,  no,"  she  objected.  "Think  of  his  eyes!  Nom 
de  Dieu!  do  you  call  them  shady?" 

Monsieur  smiled  indulgently.  Quoth  he  to  himself, 
"How  soft  are  the  hearts  of  women!" 

"Why,  why,"  she  complained,  "are  you  always  sus- 
pecting people?" 

"  Because  there  are  always  people  to  be  suspected." 

Madame  laid  a  pudgy  hand  on  his  arm.  "S-sh!  See 
here!" 

Following  her  stare,  he  beheld  a  stranger  approaching. 
Some  one  who  had  just  turned  a  near  corner  advanced 
in  the  light  of  the  electric  moon.  Presently  the  some 
one — a  small,  nervous  individual — stopped  before  the 
restaurant,  and,  with  head  jerked  back,  inspected  the 
new  sign-board. 

In  a  moment  he  lowered  his  glance.  "Was  this  at 
one  time  the  Caniche  Blanc?" 

Monsieur  rose  and  politely  bowed,  the  bow  being  elo- 
quent of  hospitality  and  affirmation.  As  for  madame, 
she  sat  a  moment  longer,  struck  dumb  with  curiosity. 
Something  so  eager  sharpened  the  visitor's  look,  some- 
thing so  impatient. 

"Is  there  a  gentleman  stopping  here  by  the  name  of 
Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd?" 

Mere  Moreau  stood  up  heavily.  "Mr.  Lloyd?"  she 
echoed,  nudging  her  husband. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lloyd." 

She  looked  at  Jules  questioningly. 

Jules  gazed  up  at  the  arc  moon.  "When  one  has  so 
many  boarders,"  he  murmured,  "it  is  difficult —  He 
paused.  "Has  monsieur  a  friend  by  that  name?" 

The  stranger  inspected  the  pair  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression. Their  hesitation  perplexed  him.  Why  in  the 
world,  he  wondered,  should  so  simple  an  inquiry  fluster 

182 


The   Top   Floor   Front 

their  silly  brains.  Much  put  out,  he  pitched  his  voice 
to  a  higher  key.  "I  want  to  know  if  Mr.  Lloyd  lives 
here." 

Madame  looked  grave.  She  felt  as  if  his  eyes,  keen 
behind  rimless  glasses,  were  boring,  gimlet-like,  even  to 
her  wadded  bones.  Feared  she  in  her  marrow,  "This 
man  is  a  detective.  Alas  for  the  top  floor  front!" 

But  Jules — Jules  the  sometime  gamin,  long  ago  quick 
at  smelling  a  rat — knew  better.  Detectives  don't  in- 
terrogate so  boldly.  Jamais!  Beware  of  their  ears  and 
their  eyes  and  even  their  noses;  but  only  when  they 
pay  for  your  wine  beware  of  their  tongues  —  and  your 
own! 

"I  believe  your  friend,"  said  monsieur,  hesitating  on 
the  implication  of  intimacy,  to  see  if  so  much  as  an  eye- 
lash fluttered  assent — ' '  I  believe  your  friend  is  the  oc- 
cupant of  the  top  floor  front." 

Madame  went  breathless  with  suspense.  But  the 
stranger  only  glanced  upward  and  remarked  that,  as  a 
light  was  burning  in  the  aforementioned  chamber,  Mr. 
Lloyd  might  be  within. 

"Perhaps,"  admitted  madame. 

"And  perhaps  not,"  said  monsieur,  smiling. 

"I'll  go  up  and  see,"  announced  the  friend  of  the 
Mystery,  setting  foot  on  the  lowest  step. 

"Mais,  non!"  prohibited  madame,  rumpling  with  ex- 
citement; after  which,  to  have  passed  the  mountain 
of  gingham  would  have  required  the  daring  of  an  Alpine 
guide. 

"What  in  the  world — "  expostulated  the  stranger. 

"You  will  please,"  demanded  Mere  Moreau,  "send 
up  your  name." 

"But,  I—" 

' '  No  matter !     The  gentleman  has  given  strict  orders. ' ' 

"Strict  orders!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  that." 

183 


The  Triumph   of  Life 

"Yes,  yes,"  put  in  Jules,  with  a  twirl  of  his  waxed 
glory — ' '  just  that. ' ' 

"But—" 

"  On  est  prieY'  began  monsieur,  airily;  " de — " 

"The  deuce!     Talk  English,  will  you?" 

"C'est  de"fendu,"  observed  madame;  "de — " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  new  move  on  the  part  of  the 
nervous  visitor.  Stepping  back  almost  to  the  curb,  he 
looked  up  again  at  the  top  floor  front. 

"Lloyd!" 

No  reply. 

The  pair  of  Moreaus,  taken  aback,  twisted  their  necks 
for  a  glance  at  the  open  window.  No  one  appeared. 
Only  a  slant  of  garish  rays,  evidently  cast  by  some 
patent  gas-mantle  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  betrayed 
an  occupant. 

"Enoch  Lloyd!" 

Still  no  answer,  no  face. 

Monsieur  and  madame  looked  at  each  other. 

"Lloyd,  old  man!" 

Was  it  the  voice  or  the  words  that  told — the  mere  call 
or  the  term  of  intimacy?  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  last 
attempt  proved  more  successful.  The  window  was  dark- 
ened by  a  man  who  rested  his  hands  on  the  sill,  and, 
thrusting  forth  head  and  shoulders  under  the  sash, 
looked  down  to  inspect  his  visitor.  "Who  is  it?"  (This 
in  a  testy  voice,  unfamiliarly  hard  and  fretful.) 

"It's  I,  Cuthbert  Morton." 

A  moment's  hesitation;  then  from  the  window  a  greet- 
ing unwontedly  half-hearted.  "Halloa,  Cutty.  Come 
up." 

Cuthbert  skirted  the  white  mountain.  The  palm- 
leaf  went  all  a-flurry  again  in  great  commotion.  Monsieur 
Moreau  turned  his  face  to  the  breeze  and  smiled  at 
nothing.  For  them  the  mystery  was  mystery  still. 

Also  for  Cuthbert  Morton.  He  was  standing  now  in 

184 


The  Top   Floor   Front 

a  dark,  narrow,  and  somewhat  malodorous  hallway  on 
the  top  floor.  Enoch's  door  had  not  yet  been  opened. 
Why?  How  peculiar  it  all  seemed!  How  utterly  out 
of  keeping  with  the  open  and  easy  nature  of  his  friend! 
Evidently  Lloyd  was  moving  about  the  room,  wherefrom 
in  a  moment  there  came  a  low  rustle  as  of  silk.  Mor- 
ton started,  his  eyes  narrowing  doubtfully.  But  no,  he 
must  be  wrong.  Suspicions  were  ungrounded.  Second 
thoughts  dispelled  them — thoughts  of  the  days  at  col- 
lege, and  the  nights.  Memory  flashed  back  and  remind- 
ed him  that,  despite  the  amusement  of  a  large  majority, 
Enoch,  owing  perhaps  to  some  fundamental  refine- 
ment, some  pristine  clarity  of  nature,  had  kept  himself 
unsmirched.  Moreover,  the  rustling,  as  Lloyd  apparent- 
ly increased  his  haste,  sounded  harsher,  more  crinkly, 
suggestive  rather  of  paper  than  of  silk.  Ah,  of  course. 
Lloyd  was  only  gathering  up  his  manuscript.  Yet  why 
on  earth — 

Suddenly  the  key  turned,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
subject  of  Morton's  conjectures  welcomed  him  with 
apologies.  "Come  in,  Cutty.  Forgive  me,  but  things 
were  so  mixed  up  that  I  had  to  straighten  them  out." 

Morton,  entering,  obtained  an  impression  of  the  room 
at  first  glance,  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  by  a  succession  of 
quick  and  pointed  glances,  for  the  darting  of  which  his 
eyes  and  the  trembling  glasses,  almost  invisible  on  the 
knifelike  bridge  of  his  nose,  appeared  to  be  singularly 
well  adapted. 

The  room,  connecting  with  a  narrow  bedchamber,  sug- 
gested a  loft  or  storage  attic,  recently  converted  by  the 
enterprising  Moreaus.  The  walls  and  ceiling  had  been 
so  lately  repaired  that  here  and  there  the  plaster  was 
perspiring  in  large  splotches  that  smelled  of  damp.  From 
one  corner  of  a  writing-table  near  the  window  a  drop- 
light,  garish  with  an  incandescent  mantle,  tinted  the  sur- 
face a  sickly  green.  On  the  desk  a  typewriting-machine, 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

covered  now  by  its  black  metal  case,  offered  the  only 
evidence  of  work.  As  for  furniture,  there  was  little;  as 
for  decoration,  almost  none.  Over  one  of  the  splotches 
where  the  dampness  oozed  hung  a  daub  in  oils,  smeared, 
no  doubt,  by  some  debtor  of  the  Moreaus,  a  beginner  at 
failure  in  the  Quarter  long  ago.  It  pictured  a  woman  in 
evening  drefes  who  would  have  seemed  more  modest  nude. 
.Opposite  this  hung  another  attempt,  not  quite  so  un- 
successful. It  was  that  of  a  bacchante,  tasting  a  grape 
in  the  woodland.  The  light  of  the  patent  gas-burner 
turned  her  body  green.  At  one  side  of  the  room  an 
empty  grate,  rusty  and  sunken,  added  to  the  cheerless- 
ness  of  the  interior. 

This  was  the  impression  of  an  instant  while  Cuthbert 
greeted  Lloyd.  "Your  manuscript,  I  suppose,  was  all 
over  the  place." 

"Yes,  reams." 

"Good!     I  knew  you'd  stick  to  it." 

Enoch  turned  to  his  desk  for  a  cigarette,  the  lighting 
of  which  bridged  a  gap  that  otherwise  might  have 
yawned  wide  for  an  answer.  "Sit  down.  Here,  have 
one. ' '  He  held  out  a  leather  case.  ' '  I  was  going  to  drop 
you  a  line  soon.  How  did  you  find  my  address?" 

"  Merely  a  piece  of  luck — for  me,  if  not  for  you."  He 
paused. 

"Of  course,  forme,"  said  Enoch;  "but  how?" 

"Oh,  simply  enough.  You've  heard  of  Charlie  Par- 
ker, the  dramatist?  Well,  he's  taken  the  room  below. 
He  told  me  there  was  a  slave  named  Enoch  Lloyd  on  top 
of  him,  who  clicked  the  night  away  with  a  typewriting- 
machine  and  ruined  his  slumber.  Ergo,  here  I  am." 

Lloyd  seated  himself  in  his  writing-chair.  Cuthbert, 
pulling  nearer  to  the  table,  struck  a  match.  "Be  sure 
your  sins  will  find  you  out."  Enoch  winced,  and  Cuth- 
bert forgot  the  match  in  wondering  wherefore.  He 
burned  his  finger.  "Dash  it!"  He  scratched  another. 

186 


The   Top   Floor   Front 

"What  sins?"  queried  Lloyd,  with  a  yawn. 

Morton  lighted  the  cigarette  without  lowering  his 
glance.  "Those  against  friendship,  of  course.  How  do 
you  mean?"  He  jerked  the  match  out.  "What  "sup?" 

"Who  said  anything  was  '  up '  ?" 

"  No  one, '"admitted  Cuthbert,  tapping  on  the  writing- 
table  with  nervous  fingers.  "  But  you  must  confess  it's 
shabby  treatment.  Here  you  are  in  town  for  two  whole 
months  and  not  a  single — " 

Enoch  stopped  short  in  stretching.  "Who  says  I've 
been  in  town  two  months?" 

"Old  Mr.  Lee  supposed  so." 

"Mr.  Lee!" 

"Yes.     Why  do  you  start?" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Nothing  much.  He  merely  happened  to  mention 
that  you  suddenly  left  Bristol  without  a  word  of  warn- 
ing." 

Enoch  surveyed  the  wall  abstractedly,  as  though  he 
had  forgotten  the  other's  presence. 

Cuthbert  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "How  did 
you  happen  to  come  here?" 

"  I  heard  O'Brien  mention  the  place.  He  hangs  about 
the  borders  of  Bohemia,  you  know.  But  tell  me,  are 
they  in  town?" 

"Who?     The  O'Briens?" 

"No,  I  mean —     Never  mind." 

Cuthbert  leaned  forward  over  the  desk.  "  Lord,  man ! 
You  look  as  if  you'd  stayed  up  every  night  for  a  week. 
What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing?" 

Lloyd  shook  his  head  wearily.  "That,"  said  he,  "is 
what  I'd  like  to  know." 

' '  The  dickens !     Have  you  begun  to  sow  them  at  last  ? ' ' 

"To  sow  what?" 

"Wild  oats.  I  always  say  it's  more  dangerous  late 
than  early." 

187 


The  Triumph   of  Life 

Enoch  passed  a  hand  across  his  forehead.  "No,  not 
yet.  It  might  have  been  better  if  I  had." 

"Oh,  hang  it!"  ejaculated  Cuthbert.     "Speak  out!" 

But  the  Mystery,  smiling  at  the  sombre  case  of  his 
typewriter,  laughed  idly.  "There's  nothing  to  say,  noth- 
ing whatever!  I'm  done  up,  that's  all.  Overwork,  I 
suppose."  He  bit  his  lip  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Ah,  that's  it.  I  began  to  fear  something  had  gone 
wrong." 

Lloyd  glanced  up  furtively.     "Who  said  so?" 

"Nobody;  and  yet  it  looks  that  way."  Morton  scru- 
tinized his  friend  with  inquisitive  shrewdness.  Never- 
theless, the  curiosity  of  the  little  critic,  though  a  genuine 
fault,  was  mingled  in  this  instance  with  an  unselfish- 
ness akin  to  the  solicitude  of  an  elder  brother.  Long 
ago  his  narrow,  regular  nature  had  constituted  itself 
monitor  over  the  pliant  and  volatile  temperament  of 
Lloyd.  Like  dies  of  base  but  deep -cut  metal,  certain 
characters  make  their  impress  on  malleable  gold.  It 
seemed  the  part  of  Morton,  keen,  incisive,  and  ready-cast, 
thus  to  play  the  die  to  Enoch,  and  he  did  it,  although  at 
the  risk  of  being  charged  with  prying.  Though  the  mo- 
tives of  Cuthbert,  like  those  of  many  self -elected  war- 
dens of  integrity,  had  not  yet  passed  the  incipient  stages 
of  generous  concern,  he  felt  a  sincere  and  growing  inter- 
est in  his  friend.  His  analytical  insight  into  men  and 
motives  had  brought  him  a  premonition  of  that  which 
Stephen  Lee  had  obtained  by  experience  and  a  broader 
sympathy  with  human  nature.  He  knew  that  failure 
degrades  some  characters  as  inevitably  as  success  spoils 
others. 

Actuated  by  this  conclusion,  Cuthbert  hung  to  the 
scent.  With  a  peculiar  mingling  of  inquisitiveness  and 
loyalty — much  as  a  woman  mixes  motives — he  could  no 
more  refrain  from  playing  the  catechist  than  could 
Lloyd,  under  the  circumstances,  throw  off  the  r61e  of 

1 88 


The  Top  Floor  Front 

mute.  Naturally  the  conversation  took  a  sharper  turn. 
Naturally  one  pursued  too  fast  and  the  other  was 
brought  to  bay.  Thus  : 

"Why  all  this  mystery  as  to  your  whereabouts — this 
apprehension  about  visitors?" 

"Mystery!     Apprehension!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  people  down -stairs  say  you've  given  strict 
orders — " 

"The  fools!" 

"Then  why  do  they — " 

Lloyd  filliped  his  cigarette  out  through  the  window. 
Immediately  he  lit  a  second.  "Of  course  I  told  them 
not  to  let  any  one  up  without  his  name.  Lord,  man! 
Who  wants  to  be  disturbed  at  his  work  by  every  Tom, 
Dick,  and  Harry  who  happens  along?  You  should  un- 
derstand that  well  enough." 

Morton  readjusted  his  glasses — not  to  see,  but  to  think 
more  closely — and  said  nothing. 

"Hang  it!"  Enoch  ejaculated.  "What  are  you  de- 
ducing now?  You  should  take  a  position  in  Mulberry 
Street  or  Scotland  Yard." 

Cuthbert  laughed  bitterly.  He  had  expected  the 
taunt.  It  was  a  constantly  repeated  echo  from  the 
friends  of  his  earliest  boyhood.  Yet  his  logical  mind 
persisted  now,  as  usual,  with  a  precision  as  keenly  deli- 
cate as  that  of  the  needle  in  a  sewing-machine.  This 
was  the  way  of  his  brain:  always  to  stitch,  and  stitch 
industriously,  scraps  of  information,  scraps  of  observa- 
tion, scraps  of  opinion,  into  a  precise  pattern  of  life. 

Whatever  convictions  it  pieced  together  now  were 
hidden  behind  his  glasses.  "Am  I  in  the  class,"  he  said, 
with  a  forced  smile,  "of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry?"  Then 
hastily,  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  an  answer:  "Well," 
he  allowed,  "perhaps  it  is  natural  enough,  but  I  can't 
help  noticing  the  change  in  you.  Think  how  different 
you  were  when  at  work  on  The  Greatest  Good,  You  used 

189 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

to  want  us  around;  liked  to  declaim  the  thing  as  it  went 
along;  left  your  manuscript  all  over  the  place;  didn't 
give  a  continental  for  privacy,  whereas  now — "  He 
paused,  narrowing  his  eyes,  knitting  his  brows.  "Now 
how  different!  Not  a  word  about  your  work!  Two 
months  in  town  and  never  a  line  to  any  of  us.  Blame  it ! 
You  seem  out  of  place  in  town.  Think  of  the  country, 
your  adored  Mount  Hope  and — " 

"Oh,  drop  all  that!"  interrupted  Enoch,  with  sudden 
anger.  Then,  controlling  himself:  "I  say,  Cutty,"  he 
requested,  almost  plaintively,  "let's  change  the  subject. 
I  know  you  mean  well,  but  you're  always  borrowing 
trouble.  For  a  man  with  no  imagination,  you  do  invent 
the  greatest  lot  of  nonsense.  The  truth  is  I'm  growing 
more  mature,  less  high-flown  and  harum-scarum.  I've 
settled  down  to  real  work.  I've  come  here  to  be  alone 
and  accomplish  something.  Where  once  I  was  all  in 
the  air,  I  am  now  on  earth.  Where  I  used  to  ignore  first 
principles,  I'm  now  getting  down  to  them.  You  are 
the  very  one  to  see  the  wisdom  of  my  course." 

Cuthbert  pursed  his  lips.  "That  depends — "  he  be- 
gan. 

"On  nothing,"  was  the  quick  rejoinder.  "I  have 
asked  you  to  drop  the  subject.  I've  said  all  I'm  going  to, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

Morton,  twirling  his  cigarette  about,  squinted  at  the 
spark.  "Well,  all  right."  He  appeared  to  surrender. 
Then,  after  a  moment  of  silence:  "I  see,"  he  observed, 
in  easy,  conversational  tones,  "you've  taken  to  a  type- 
writer." 

"Yes;  more  speed." 

"You've  been  hurrying  the  work  along,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!  No  more  depending  on  mere  mood — the 
divine  afflatus  business." 

"  No."  Lloyd  glanced  at  the  shrewd  but  sincere  face 
190 


The  Top    Floor   Front 

of  his  friend  with  a  look  of  suddenly  awakened  interest. 
A  noticeable  comparison  had  occurred  to  him.  He 
heard  anothjsr  voice,  hard  with  similar  sentiments,  and 
yet  how  different  at  heart  were  Matthew  Steele  and 
Cuthbert  Morton!  They  stood  for  the  highest  and  the 
lowest,  he  thought,  in  the  utilitarian  system.  Each  had 
a  hand  in  the  building  of  Babel.  To  compare  the  two 
was  to  contrast  the  giant,  Commercialism,  blindly  grub- 
bing for  a  hard  foundation,  with  Science,  the  architect, 
calmly  planning  their  tower  to  the  skies.  And  where 
was  religion,  and  where  was  poetry,,  and  where  all  the 
Lloyds  of  life — the  men  who  dream  ?  A  realization  that 
he,  Enoch  Lloyd,  a  man  capable  of  drawing  these  distinc- 
tions, of  standing  aloof,  and,  thanks  to  the  soul  within 
him,  transcending  their  highest  aim,  a  realization  that  he, 
Enoch  Lloyd,  was  no  longer  in  a  position  to  despise  the 
sightless  giant,  brought  him  a  moment  of  despair.  True, 
he  was  not  grubbing  for  mere  wealth,  yet  that  which 
he  sought,  if  obtained,  would  bestow,  he  admitted,  far 
less  benefit  on  others  than  a  fortune  brings  to  the  circle 
of  its  maker.  This  fact,  and  with  it  a  quick  glimpse  of 
the  whole  situation,  deepened  his  depression.  Why  had 
Cuthbert  come  to  unnerve  him  ?  Why  must  his  privacy 
be  invaded?  Morton's  glance  was  a  stab.  The  keen 
points  of  light  reflected  on  his  glasses  seemed  to  pene- 
trate through  every  secret.  When  he  frowned  the  glasses 
trembled,  when  they  trembled  the  lights  danced,  till 
Enoch,  somehow  fascinated,  somehow  unwilling  to  lower 
his  gaze,  was  beside  himself  with  desperate  vexation. 
"Why  did  you  come?"  he  demanded,  suddenly. 

Cuthbert  said  nothing. 

"Are  you  always  so  interested  in  other  people's  busi- 
ness?" 

A  start,  but  still  not  a  word  of  answer. 

Enoch's  temper  took  fire.  A  turbulent  feeling  of 
offence,  too  unfounded  and  exaggerated  to  be  termed 

191 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

indignation,  burned  within  him.  The  muteness  of  Cuth- 
bert  had  become  unbearable.  Why  did  he  not  speak? 
Better  his  prying  questions  than  so  insinuating  a  silence. 

It  was,  in  fact,  this  silence — Morton's  last  thrust — 
that  brought  his  quarry  to  bay. 

Lloyd  sprang  up  and  stood  over  him  with  angry  eyes. 
"Damn  it!  Can  you  ever  leave  me  alone?" 

Cuthbert's  look  went  hard  and  cynical.  Even  curi- 
osity so  peculiarly  blended  with  friendship  could  endure 
no  more.  His  glasses  flashed.  Without  a  word  he  went 
to  the  door.  There,  turning,  "I  can,"  he  replied,  in- 
cisively— "and  will!"  He  laughed  a  chirrupy  laugh, 
suggesting  the  twitter  of  an  English  sparrow.  "  Good- 
bye, Angel;"  whereafter  in  a  second  the  door  was  closed. 

Lloyd  started  back  as  though  struck.  The  sarcasm 
with  which  his  old  sobriquet  had  been  tossed  at  him 
tingled  in  his  ears.  His  face  paled;  he  bit  his  lip.  What 
cause —  He  hesitated.  What  reason  had  Cuthbert — 
he  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  open  window — to  taunt 
an  old  friend?  But  still — he  turned  and  crossed  the 
room — Morton  had  always  meant  well!  He  rested  a 
hand  on  the  sill— both  hands.  Morton  had  always — 
He  thrust  his  head  out  and  looked  down.  "Cutty! 
Cutty!" 

He  was  too  late.  The  small,  wiry  figure,  without  the 
slightest  show  of  hesitancy,  turned  a  corner  and  was 
gone. 

There  sat  the  Moreaus  peering  up.  A  couple  of  mis- 
chievous ragamuffins,  having  heard  the  voice,  answered 
it  with  jeers  and  catcalls.  Enoch  surveyed  the  square. 
On  the  benches,  beyond  the  immediate  circle  of  light, 
shapes  were  caressing  shapes.  Here  and  there  a  dress, 
once  white,  or  a  patch  of  yellow  hair,  lent  semblance 
of  life  to  the  shadows.  Two  or  three  of  the  nearest 
had  heard  the  call.  Enoch  saw  several  upturned  faces 
— several  colorless,  upturned  faces.  They  stared  with 


The   Top    Floor   Front 

a  sort  of  resentful  curiosity.  So,  no  doubt,  would  the 
comfortable  dead  look  up  should  their  peace  be  sud- 
denly broken. 

The  figure  of  a  small  woman,  unescorted,  was  ap- 
proaching with  a  slightly  hesitant  step.  Towards  one 
and  another  of  the  couples  she  turned  her  head  with  an 
air  of  scrutiny,  and  her  features  were  closely  veiled. 

Enoch's  imagination,  to-night  unhealthy  with  fatigue, 
received  a  morbid  impression. 

This  woman  walked  among  the  lifeless,  and  yet  was 
herself  a  virile  spirit  who  had  come,  as  it  were,  to  inspect 
them  and  make  sure  of  their  condition.  Her  the  leth- 
argy never  would  claim.  She  conferred  it  upon  others. 
Thus,  no  doubt,  do  the  daughters  of  Death — the  Seven 
Sins — keep  watch  against  resurrection. 

Naturally,  the  lady  wore  a  veil.  Naturally,  her  steps 
were  cautious. 

Lloyd  watched  her.  So  real  was  the  phantasm  just 
conceived  that  he  frowned  at  the  veil  and  even  shud- 
dered. Thereupon,  as  chance  would  have  it,  she  looked 
up.  He  saw  the  shadowy  film  that  hid  her  face  turned 
fully  towards  him.  With  a  quick,  unreasoning  impulse 
he  lowered  the  window-shade,  and  that,  he  thought,  was 
the  end  of  it.  The  end  of  what  ?  He  smiled  as  at  an  ab- 
surdity. All  he  needed  was  a  little  sleep  to  relieve  the 
tension.  But  not  now — not  yet.  The  thing  could  be 
finished  this  very  night.  Locking  the  door  against  in- 
truders, he  lifted  the  case  from  his  typewriter,  seated 
himself,  and  fell  to  work,  safely  screened,  he  believed,  by 
the  yellow  shade  from  upturned  faces. 

In  a  moment  he  forgot  the  One  of  Seven,  and  gave  not 
so  much  as  a  nook  of  his  brain  to  the  fear  that  a  screen 
might  suggest  a  secret.  Nor  yet  did  he  consider  at  all 
an  interesting  study  in  optics. 

Not  so  the  One.  Raising  her  veil,  she  stared  at  the 
lighted  window.  Why  had  he  so  abruptly  drawn  the 

'3  193 


The   Triumph  of   Life 

shade?  The  woman  waited,  wondering;  her  brows  con- 
tracted in  perplexity. 

Again  he  appeared,  or,  rather,  his  presence  was  made 
manifest  by  the  disregarded  necromancy  of  optics. 

Suddenly  on  the  shade  the  image  of  a  profile  bending 
close  to  a  pair  of  hands  and  a  pair  of  forearms  was  cast 
in  sharp  silhouette  by  the  light  beside  him.  The  hands 
were  dancing  quickly  up  and  down,  the  fingers  jigging 
at  a  lively  rate,  as  if  on  the  key-board  of  a  piano. 

Thus,  no  doubt,  is  a  man's  dark  side — the  unreal  but 
telltale  shadow — revealed  to  the  One  of  Seven. 

The  woman  took  to  a  bench  and  pondered. 

She,  however,  was  not  alone  in  puzzling  over  the  rid- 
dle. That  which  optics  did  for  her,  acoustics  did  for 
others.  Monsieur  Moreau,  up  on  the  stoop,  looked  at 
madame  and  smiled.  "There  it  goes!"  he  nodded. 
"There  it  goes  again — dickety-tap,  dick-tap-tappety !" 

Mere  Moreau  sighed  heavily.  "  I  wish  there  were  more 
like  him.  I'm  sure  he's  all  right.  Now  if  the  little  one 
would  only  follow  this  honest  pursuit — " 

"Notre  p'tite!"  interjected  Moreau.  "Piff!  my  dear; 
impossible!" 

"If  she  would  only  do  that,"  complained  madame, 
"instead  of  borrowing  from  us  and — how  do  you  say  it? 
— hoodwinking  all  the  others!" 

Monsieur  daintily  fingered  his  facial  adornment  and 
smiled  with  covert  pride.  "Yes,  yes,  my  heart;  and 
yet  how  dull  to  be  always  dickety-tap  ping!" 


II 

The  Custodian   of  Night 

AJ  hour  earlier  in  the  evening  now  dragging  so  op- 
pressively to  a  close  the  servile  dachshund  known 
as  "p'tit  Bonhomme,"  lying  at  his  mistress's  feet  in  the 
respectable  "  cocoon  of  the  chrysalis,"  had  ventured  to 
yap  a  plaintive  remonstrance.  Such  is  the  inconsistency 
of  dogs.  Here  was  a  nose  positively  made  to  be  clutched 
and  wrung,  and  yet  so  sensitive  as  to  shrink  from  the 
hand  that  squeezed  it.  Such,  too,  is  the  inconsistency 
of  woman.  Here  were  diminutive  fingers — possibly  sor- 
rowed Bonhomme — fingers  made  to  smooth  and  stroke 
the  muzzle  in  question,  and  yet  so  cruel  as  to  delight 
in  torture.  Delight?  Yes,  they  fairly  revelled  in  the 
clinch.  Yelp  as  he  would,  nothing  could  restrain  her. 
She  only  persisted  further.  "Little  fool!"  she  laughed. 
"Little  baby!  Be  quiet  and  I'll  stop.  It's  the  only 
way." 

As  though  he  understood,  p'tit  Bonhomme  now  cring- 
ingly  resigned  himself  to  the  torment.  Instantly  she  re- 
leased him.  "There,  now  you're  free  to  crawl  away  and 
hide." 

More  amenable  still  to  this  last  advice,  he  took  refuge 
beneath  her  sofa.  His  mistress,  comfortably  seated 
thereon,  and  looking  down  as  if  at  her  victim  through 
the  upholstery,  proceeded  to  Frenchify  the  wisdom  of 
Sparta.  "P'tit  miserable,"  said  she,  frowning  at  the 
Oriental  covering,  "a  word  in  your  floppety  ear.  Never 
make  a  fuss.  It  is  all  in  vain.  Never  ki-yi  at  the  fin- 

195 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

gers  of  Destiny.  Just  bite  your  tongue  till  they  are  tired 
of  the  fun,  and  they  will  be!  That's  the  trick  of  your 
mistress — eh,  mon  cher?  And  it's  not  so  bad — it's  not 
so  bad!  There's  now  and  then  a  titbit  in  the  fingers." 
Picking  up  a  newspaper,  she  held  it  to  the  lamp.  "This, 
for  instance.  Here's  a  titbit,  my  dear  Bonhomme,  and 
this  is  why  I  hurt  you.  Sheer  delight,  you  know. 
What  are  you  here  for,  eh?  I'll  tell  you  why  Monsieur 
Bonhomme  is  here.  He's  here  to  bear  the  moods  of  his 
little  fate,  like  any  good  Christian."  Crossing  herself 
with  a  devout  forefinger,  Celeste  read  the  delectable 
paragraph,  twittering  it  aloud: 

"'Another  landmark  has  vanished.  The  sign  of  the 
White  Poodle,  long  familiar  to  Bohemians,  has  disappeared 
from  the  little  restaurant  of  that  name  on  the  south  side  of 
Washington  Square.  The  success  of  the  proprietors ' ' 
[here  Celeste  fairly  trilled  the  tidings]  "  '  has  enabled  them 
to  lease  the  entire  building  for  hotel  purposes.'  " 

Springing  up  in  excitement,  she  tossed  aside  the  paper. 
"At  last  they've  done  it!  I  must  go  and  congratulate 
them."  She  paused,  with  a  petulant  frown.  To  dress 
and  go  out  on  such  a  night  was  undoubtedly  to  swelter. 
How  comfortable  she  felt,  clad  only  in  this  diaphanous 
garment!  Entering  her  alcove  bedroom,  she  paused  be- 
fore a  long  cheval-glass.  The  wrapper,  a  silken  kimono, 
soft,  and  subtly  green,  with  the  tinge  of  a  moonlit  wave, 
shimmered  uncertainly  in  the  light  of  the  alcove  candle. 

Her  eyes  glowed.  What  daring  bizarrerie  in  the  color ! 
It  seemed  appropriate  that  her  dress  should  suggest  a 
meaning,  always  an  uninterpretable  meaning,  a  symbol 
of  something,  an  enigma,  nebulous  moonlight  or  a  moon- 
lit wave,  an  impression  haunting  the  eyes,  the  body,  the 
mind,  the  soul;  something  transmundane,  illusive,  un- 
graspable — ever  to  be  sought! 

She  smiled.  How  little  she  was,  yet  how  voluptu- 

196 


The    Custodian    of   Night 

ously  rounded;  how  piquant,  yet  how  alluring  to  the 
gaze! 

Catching  together  the  edges  of  her  garment,  she  posed 
and  studied  the  effect.  Evidently  delighted  by  her  sug- 
gestiveness  in  so  graceful  yet  obvious  a  concealment, 
she  laughed  aloud.  Somehow  the  posture  and  gossamer 
fabric  softened  the  mere  physical — the  sheer  sensual — 
beauty  that  a  bolder  display  might  instantly  have  re- 
vealed. Somehow  the  filmy  folds  appeared  to  endue  her 
form  with  mystery;  to  invest  it  with  a  part  of  the  psychal 
influence  lurking  in  the  shadow  of  her  eyes  and  hair. 

Nodding  approval,  she  wrapped  the  tissue  even  closer, 
and,  lightly  clasping  her  hands  before  her,  seemed  loath 
to  leave.  Above  the  gleam  of  her  eyes,  and  downward 
beside  them,  hung  her  hair  and  the  shadows  of  her  hair — 
deep,  diffusive,  mysterious.  Diffusive?  Yes,  yes.  This, 
she  told  herself,  was  the  main  effect.  At  last  she  could 
name  it.  She  diffused  shadows.  She  might  have  been 
called  "The  Custodian  of  Night."  She  had  risen  from 
the  pale-green  deep  and  her  body  had  caught  its  tinge; 
but  her  hair  and  her  eyes,  unchangeable,  umbral,  ever 
nocturnal,  spread  abroad  the  dark.  How  inscrutable 
she  was;  how  chimerical!  Yes,  chimerical.  The  word 
pleased  her.  La  Chimere,  she  might  well  call  herself, 
since  men  pursued  but  never  could  obtain.  Voluptas 
veiled  was  La  Chimere,  and  La  Chimere,  with  eternal 
mockery  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes,  was  p'tite  Celeste. 

Subtly  she  appreciated  the  effect  of  her  zephyr  gar- 
ment, both  because  it  concealed  and  yet  suggested  the 
vital  intensity  of  her  body.  Moreover,  the  airy  tissue 
prettily  symbolized  her  policy.  Instinct  with  a  spirit  of 
seduction,  did  she  not  similarly  soften  all  the  realities  of 
life  ?  How  graceful  she  was  in  shrouding  the  definite  out- 
lines, the  actualities,  the  bold,  unmistakable  nudities — 
how  wise!  Nor  was  it  all  expediency  that  drew  the  veil. 
Anything  bare,  anything  stark,  anything  outright — any- 

197 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

thing,  in  short,  that  was  frankly  naked,  seemed  worthy 
only  of  the  vulgar,  the  canaille,  she  presumptuously 
sneered.  Incapable  of  recognizing  innocence  in  candor, 
her  veneer  of  delicacy  conformed  in  a  way  to  the  scrupu- 
losity of  prudes. 

Affectedly  particular  in  this  direction,  she  was,  how- 
ever, no  stickler  for  modesty  in  the  way  of  obtaining 
funds.  And  funds  at  the  present  moment  were  surely 
the  prerequisites  of  existence.  Either  they  must  be 
forthcoming,  or  some  of  her  precious  little  possessions 
would  have  to  go. 

She  turned  from  the  mirror  and  glanced  between  the 
portieres  at  the  ormolu  clock,  not  to  see  the  time,  but  to 
deplore  the  possibility  of  a  sacrifice.  If  nothing  turned 
up  very  soon,  poor  Cupid  of  the  forge  would  be  trans- 
ported to  a  place  where  they  don't  wind  clocks — they 
have  so  many!  and  hearts  are  not  wanted — so  many 
break  there !  Alas !  his  little  arm  would  be  paralyzed- 
Love's  labor  lost — at  the  sign  of  the  Three  Brass  Balls. 
And  then  old  Time  would  step  to  the  anvil  and  fall  to 
coining  dollars!  They  welcome  Time  at  the  Three  Brass 
Balls.  He  is  their  master-workman. 

Ugh!  it  must  not  be!  Celeste  dressed  hurriedly, 
smiled  at  the  farrier's  figure,  waved  good-bye  to  Bon- 
homme,  and,  braving  the  heat,  was  before  very  long 
inspecting  another  figure,  also  at  work,  mysterious  as 
though  at  the  labor  of  life — a  figure  silhouetted  on  a  win- 
dow-shade. 

Succumbing  to  the  thrall,  its  mystery,  its  meaning,  as 
she  had  not  succumbed  even  to  the  shadows  in  her  look- 
ing-glass, Celeste  sank  to  a  bench  in  the  square  beneath 
and  considered  the  affairs  of  her  destiny.  Evidently 
this  profound  contemplation  ended  as  it  had  begun — 
with  a  question.  Rising  suddenly,  all  on  edge  with  im- 
patient wonder,  she  calmed  herself  to  a  casual  step  and 
approached  the  abode  of  the  silhouette. 

198 


The   Custodian    off   Night 

On  the  stoop  sat  a  mountain  of  white  gingham  and  a 
bright-eyed  mouse. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Celeste,  "you  might  be  taking  your 
ease  on  one  of  the  benches."  She  glanced  up  approv- 
ingly at  the  sign-board.  "Well,  so  you've  done  it!" 

They  surveyed  her  after  the  widely  different  manners 
of  a  mouse  and  a  mountain.  The  bright  eyes  darted  up 
to  her  own  furtively ;  the  gingham  scarcely  rustled. 

"You've  done  it  at  last,"  she  gayly  pursued,  ignoring 
their  silence.  "'The  Washington  Hotel!'  Excellent! 
We're  coming  up  in  the  world.  My  congratulations, 
monsieur  le  proprietaire ;  but,  of  course,  to  you,  madame, 
belongs  the  praise.  You  are  so  progressive!  You  hate 
a  rut  as  much  as  I  do.  Oh,  how  we  both  like  a  change 
now  and  then!  I  suppose  it's  the  blood  of  our  guillotin- 
ing ancestor.  She  wanted  a  change  herself.  Yes,  you 
are  a  worthy  descendant."  And  Celeste  courtesied 
prettily  to  madame. 

The  mountain  of  gingham  stirred.  Flattery  alone 
could  have  moved  it.  But  the  mouse  squirmed.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  pay  these  preposterous  compliments 
one's  self;  it  was  quite  a  different  matter  to  tolerate 
them  from  another.  Whenever  madame  of  the  Terror 
was  thrown  in  his  teeth  he  began  to  wish  that  his  own 
ancestor  had  been  something  more  than  a  vagabond 
rhymster. 

Celeste  smiled  and  proceeded  to  palliate  him.  "Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  perhaps  the  story  of  Phillipot  is 
all  wrong?  You  are  so  comme  il  faut.  Do  you  know, 
I've  been  thinking  that  perhaps  your  ancestor  was  none 
other  than  the  noble  gentleman  whose  head  madame  of 
the  Terror  carried  home  in  a  basket!" 

At  this  astounding  suggestion  the  present  madame 
laughed  aloud.  What  a  thrust!  Yes,  it  was  very  probable. 

Monsieur,  however,  ignoring  her  mirth,  smiled  proudly. 
Of  course  she  could  not  appreciate  the  meaning  of  that 

199 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

possibility.  He  was  quite  willing  to  have  it  that  her  pro- 
genitor had  made  way  with  the  head  of  his;  the  thing 
proved  him  of  a  stock  so  far  superior.  "I  believe  it!" 
he  exclaimed.  "It  must  be  so.  Now  I  know  why  at 
heart  I  am  aristocratic." 

Thus  the  vanity  of  both  was  tickled  by  Celeste. 

Monsieur,  however,  was  clever  enough  to  understand 
the  tricks  of  cajolery.  Between  him  and  Celeste  it  was 
diamond  cut  diamond.  "  What  is  your  name  this  week  ?" 
he  inquired,  by  way  of  a  pleasantry. 

Celeste  shrugged  with  a  smile.  "I've  almost  for- 
gotten." 

"Ah!  so  many,  I  suppose." 

"No,  not  that;  but  it's  such  a  long  time  since  I  took 
a  new  one." 

"What!     Is  the  confidence  woman  reformed?" 

"Yes,  there's  no  one  to  confide  in." 

"Pauvre  p'tite!  Oh,  pardon,  I  forgot  you  were  an 
American.  The  once-a-poor-model-of-the-Quarter  story 
is  out  of  date." 

Celeste  nodded. 

"  Hum-m-m!"  rumbled  the  white  mountain. 

"Yes,  indeed,  hum-m-m,"  admitted  monsieur,  with  a 
covert  wink  at  Celeste.  "We  cannot  countenance  her 
at  all." 

Madame  turned  on  him  heavily.  "Who  said  so?  Did 
I?" 

"No,  that's  true.  Forgive  me.  You  did  not,  my 
dear."  He  twirled  a  smile  away.  "  But  then — " 

"Pooh!  I  see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't.  We've 
made  money.  It  is  only  right." 

Celeste  sighed  gratefully.  "You  are  too  good  to  me 
— much  too  good.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  inquired  monsieur,  men- 
tally imagining  the  sum  of  his  wealth  written  across  the 
great  arc  moon. 

200 


The    Custodian   of   Night 

"What  you  can  spare,"  was  the  humble  murmur.  "I'll 
never  ask  you  again — but  see."  She  opened  a  tiny  sil- 
ver chatelaine  bag  at  her  side.  The  jaws  of  it  yawned 
empty. 

Monsieur  looked  pityingly  at  the  bag.  "Ho,  poor 
thing,  it's  hungry.  But,"  he  declared,  with  an  aggres- 
sive glance  at  madame,  "I  think  a  couple  of  hundred 
would  be  excessive." 

The  palm -leaf  fan  flapped  quick  with  contrariety. 
"Do  you?  Now,  now,  now!  Why  so?  This  is  the 
last  time." 

"True,  but  still — "  He  made  a  mental  calculation  in 
subtraction  on  the  globe  of  the  electric  moon.  A  com- 
fortable balance  remained.  "  But  still — " 

"Bah!  You  always  were  a  miser.  Who  has  made 
the  money,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"  There  can't  be  a  question,  my  dear." 

"Well,  then,  who  has  a  right  to  spend  it?" 

"Reasonable,  cherie;  very  reasonable!" 

' '  Tou j  ours !     Then  give  it  to  her. ' ' 

Monsieur  rose,  obedient  as  ever.  Winking  and  smiling 
from  behind  the  mountain  at  the  little  beneficiary,  he 
backed  into  the  house. 

Celeste  seated  herself  on  the  steps  and  surveyed  the 
paradise  of  shop-girls.  By  twos  and  fours  the  lovers  had 
begun  to  leave.  With  a  straightening  of  hats  and  taking 
of  arms,  with  giggles  and  whistles  as  signals  of  reminder 
to  their  friends  who  lagged  on  the  benches,  they  slouched 
away.  Celeste,  watching  them,  affected  a  tender  pity. 
' '  Poor  little  souls !  There  giggles  Celeste  ten  years  ago 
in  the  shadows  of  Notre  Dame." 

The  fan  stopped  in  surprise.  "  I  like  to  hear  you  say 
that.  It  is  not  proud." 

Celeste  looked  up  penitently.  "Your  kindness  makes 
me  ashamed  of  pretence." 

"Chere  p'tite." 

201 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"  But,  after  all,  I  never  did  loll  my  head  on — " 

"No,  no,  my  dear;  jamais — very  unlike  the  rest." 

"  I  wish  they  would  go,  so  we  could  be  quite  alone." 

"Yes." 

"  But  what  is  the  constant  tapping  overhead?" 

"That  is  the  top  floor  front." 

' '  It  sounds  like  typewriting.  Some  struggling  wom- 
an, I  suppose." 

"No,  we  take  only  bachelors.  It's  a  man — Mr.  Enoch 
Lloyd." 

Celeste  sat  motionless.     "  Oh,  a  man." 

"Yes,  but  s-sh!  it's  very  queer!" 

"Queer?" 

Madame  wrinkled  up  her  brows.  "A  mystery!  We 
cannot  tell.  He  works  and  works.  We  must  raise  his 
price ;  the  gas  bill  is  too  much." 

' '  Why  is  that  strange  ?     So  many  people — ' ' 

"Ah,  but  he  never  says — never  talks  about  it.  He 
hides  everything.  He  fears  visitors.  We  cannot  make 
out."  She  paused;  they  both  looked  up.  The  tapping 
had  suddenly  stopped.  In  a  moment  the  light  went 
out.  "Hum!"  said  madame,  resuming  her  fan.  "He 
has  never  before  gone  to  bed  so  early." 

"No?  Well, he  is  probably  worn  out,  poor  fellow.  I 
wonder  what  has  become  of  monsieur  le  proprie*taire." 

"Poof!  That,  at  least,  is  not  a  mystery.  The  miser 
has  forgotten  the  combination.  But  the  thing  is  plain. 
The  numbers  he  set  it  for  are  our  three  ages — his,  yours, 
mine.  I  suggested  that.  He  always  forgets  it  when  I 
want  money  from  the  safe.  Here  he  comes." 

"  S-sh !     That  is  not  his  step . ' ' 

"Not?  Then  perhaps  it's  the  top  floor  front."  They 
kept  silence.  Down  came  the  Mystery  between  them, 
while  Cdleste,  edging  to  one  side,  raised  a  hand  to  her 
face  carelessly,  as  though  to  arrange  her  veil.  He 
walked  away  quickly  and  turned  a  corner. 

202 


The   Custodian    of   Night 

"Hum-m-m!"  said  madame,  pursing  her  lips.  "He 
had  a  package  in  his  hand." 

"Urgent  work,  I  suppose.  But  where  is  the  miser? 
Shall  I  go  in  and  suggest  blowing  open  the  safe?" 

"  Ha!     Yes,  that  joke  will  make  him  angry." 

Celeste  went.  Meeting  Moreau,  she  laid  finger  to  lips 
and  drew  him  back  to  the  office,  a  dark  cubby  -  hole, 
where  were  kept  the  books  of  the  establishment,  and  on 
a  high  shelf  numerous  money-making  bottles  of  cordials 
and  liqueurs.  "  Have  you  a  key  to  the  top  floor  front? 
Quick,  tell  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have;  but  why?" 

"Give  it  to  me." 

Mastered  by  her  impatience,  he  took  a  pass-key  from 
his  desk  drawer.  "This  opens  them  all." 

"Good!  Now  quick,  come  up  and  wait  on  the  floor 
below.  She  may  grow  impatient.  If  she  appears,  talk 
her  off,  but  warn  me." 

"Warn  you?  How?  How?"  His  eyes  glistened  with 
bewildered  excitement. 

"Oh,  hum  an  air — the  '  Boulanger  March,'  anything!" 

"Yes."  (They  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the  top  flight.) 
"Yes,  yes."  Monsieur  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "But 
suppose  he  comes!" 

"Then  carelessly  hum  another  —  the  'Marseillaise.' 
Leave  the  rest  to  me.  I  can  escape  to  your  bedroom." 
She  flew  up-stairs. 

"Pardieu!"  exclaimed  Moreau  to  himself.  "Now  we 
shall  know.  Now  or  never!  Dear  me,  how  clever  she 
is,  p'tite  Celeste — how  quick,  how  vivacious!" 

In  a  twinkling  Celeste  had  key  in  lock  and  door 
open.  The  light  flooded  in  from  the  hall.  Her  eyes 
darted  about  the  room.  So  keen  was  her  power  of  ob- 
servation that  after  that  first  glance  she  could  probably 
have  left  the  room  and  catalogued  all  its  visible  contents. 
But  the  invisible  meant  far  more. 

203 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

She  glided  in,  drawing  the  door  ajar  behind  her. 
Through  the  crack  came  a  ray  of  light,  and  through  the 
window-shade  a  faint  glimmer  from  the  street,  but  this, 
cast  upward  to  the  ceiling,  lent  no  assistance.  She  must 
open  the  door  wide.  No,  it  swung  outward.  If  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst  and  Boulanger  failed  her,  she 
would  have  to  pull  the  knob  in  a  hurry  and  draw  the 
bolt.  This  she  decided  instinctively,  as  a  fox  decides 
upon  cover,  not  by  thought.  And  all  the  time  she  was 
looking  for  the  invisible.  First  she  slipped  to  the  bed- 
room, leaving  the  obvious  till  the  last.  Standing  on  tip- 
toe at  the  tall  chiffonnier,  she  passed  a  hand  over  the 
top.  Everything  had  to  be  done  by  feeling,  by  the  touch 
of  her  perceptive,  antennae-like  fingers.  Meanwhile  at 
short  intervals  she  held  her  breath,  listening.  From  the 
chiffonnier  she  felt  her  way  to  the  bed,  and  thence  to 
a  large  wardrobe.  This  she  opened  noiselessly.  She 
reached  up.  Dexterous  and  nimble  as  a  pickpocket's, 
her  hands  went  through  the  clothes.  They  contained 
nothing  of  interest — a  pipe,  a  handful  of  matches.  Not 
a  paper,  not  a  key.  She  glided  back  to  the  adjoining 
room.  Against  the  opaque  window-shade  the  type- 
writer stood  black  and  heavy.  Otherwise  the  top  of  the 
desk  was  bare.  She  laid  a  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  top 
drawer,  then  hesitated.  Up  from  below  came  a  catch 
from  the  "  Boulanger  March,"  airily  trilled  by  Moreau. 
She  pulled  the  drawer  open.  There  was  plenty  of  time. 
The  mountain  could  be  heard.  If  it  approached  she 
would  spring  to  the  door.  Madame  must  not  see  the 
invisible.  Madame  talked.  With  both  hands  Celeste 
rummaged  in  the  drawer.  Pencils,  pen -holders,  an 
eraser — that  was  all.  Impatiently  she  tried  the  lower 
drawers.  They  were  both  locked.  Her  eyes  wandered. 
There  was  plenty  of  time,  but  little  hope.  Evidently 
the  volcano  below  was  not  in  eruption ;  the  song  and  the 
talk  had  ceased.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

204. 


The   Custodian    of   Night 

But  she  must,  positively  must,  get  a  hold  on  him,  learn 
the  secret,  if  secret  there  was;  do  anything,  in  fact,  to 
obtain  an  advantage.  Only  one  thing,  and  this  too 
obvious  to  afford  hope,  yet  remained.  Stooping,  she 
waved  an  arm  to  and  fro  under  the  desk.  Her  hand 
came  in  contact  with  a  scrap-basket.  She  started  to 
draw  it  into  the  light.  But  suddenly,  in  a  careless,  rol- 
licking way,  as  though  monsieur  were  humming  at  his 
work,  came  the  air  of  the  "  Marseillaise."  Quick  as  a 
flash  she  snatched  at  the  scraps  in  the  basket,  opened 
her  little  side-bag,  jammed  down  a- handful,  snapped  the 
bag  shut,  and  ran  to  the  door.  In  an  instant  it  was 
closed  and  locked,  and  she  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  in 
the  proprietors'  bedroom. 

Up  came  the  Mystery,  unsuspecting.  Through  the 
key-hole  she  watched  him  enter  his  room.  When  his 
door  was  again  closed  she  hurried  down.  "What  an  in- 
spiring air,"  she  laughed  to  Moreau,  "is  the  'Mar- 
seillaise ' !  I  suppose  my  great  -  grandmother  used  to 
sing  it  when  heads  dropped." 

"What  did  you  find?  What  did  you  find?"  whis- 
pered Moreau,  on  wires  with  curiosity. 

"Nothing — nothing,  after  all." 

The  wires  were  immediately  unstrung.  "Oh,  ma 
p'tite — non,  non!" 

"  It's  true;  but  where's  the  victim  of  Boulanger?" 

"  Out  on  the  stoop.     I  had  to  tell  her." 

"You  did?     Well,  that's  all  right.     Come." 

Together  they  emerged  in  silence. 

"What  did  you  find?"  began  madame,  fanning  her- 
self to  prevent  apoplexy. 

"Nothing  whatever.     It's  too  bad." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  up?" 

"  I  was  so  afraid  the  top  floor  front  might  catch  you. 
Now  with  me,  of  course,  it  wouldn't  matter.  I  have  so 
little  to  lose,  while  you,  being  the  proprietor — " 

205 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"Oh,"  said  madame,  "charmant!"  Then  to  Moreau: 
"Jules,  give  her  the  present,  though  she  doesn't  deserve 
it.  She  has  not  found  out.  Nom  de  Dieu,  he  will  kill 
me  with  mystery — this  peculiar  Monsieur  Clickety-tap." 

Jules,  with  a  mock  bow,  handed  Celeste  an  envelope. 
"Yes,  it's  there,"  he  nodded,  as  she  opened  the  flap; 
"don't  worry." 

Celeste,  after  actually  beholding  the  prerequisite  of 
existence,  sprang  up  to  Monsieur  Moreau  and  kissed  him 
affectionately,  then  bestowed  tokens  of  endearment  on 
madame  likewise,  and  hurried  down  the  steps.  "Good- 
night, my  dear  little  papa  and  mamma.  Thank  you, 
thank  you.  I  never  shall  forget." 

Turning  at  last  into  Irving  Place,  homeward  bound, 
Celeste  found  herself  in  a  locality  at  present  sufficient- 
ly deserted  to  render  safe  the  gratification  of  curiosity. 
Still  walking  at  a  rapid  pace,  she  opened  her  side-bag. 
Thereafter,  had  there  been  observers,  her  actions  might 
have  suggested  a  paper  chase,  in  which  this  quick  little 
figure  was  playing  the  hare.  From  her  ringers  flutter- 
ed to  the  pavement  in  a  long,  uneven  line,  innumerable 
white  scraps,  while  now  and  again  the  swift  hare  darted 
a  glance  in  her  wake  as  though  fearing  the  pursuit  of  a 
hound.  Evidently  there  was  an  innovation  heightening 
the  zest  of  the  game.  Before  tossing  aside  the  bits  of 
paper  she  glanced  at  each  with  a  quick  scrutiny  in  the 
glimmer  of  the  street  lights.  From  her  bag  to  her  eyes 
again  and  again  slipped  the  quick,  nervous  fingers,  half  a 
word  or  a  blank  or  a  smooch  of  ink  as  often  piquing  her 
inspection.  Apparently  she  hoped  among  all  the  scraps 
to  find  a  scrap  of  information.  It  may  have  been  that 
the  hare  in  this  interesting  chase  was  not  so  much  pur- 
sued as  pursuing. 

Along  two  or  three  blocks  her  trail  continued,  the 
fragments  lying  farther  and  farther  apart,  as  if  with  each 

206 


The   Custodian    of   Night 

went  a  point  in  the  game  and  she  dreaded  to  summon 
the  few  remaining  chances. 

Darting  her  hand  into  the  bag,  she  held  it  there  and 
slackened  her  pace,  letting  the  fateful  scraps  dribble 
through  her  fingers,  then  grasping  them  all  together 
tensely  and  pushing  down  her  little  fist  hard  against  the 
chamois  lining,  much  as  a  gambler  shuffles  and  grips  his 
last  hand  at  cards,  pips  down,  before  plucking  up  courage 
to  face  the  inevitable.  At  last  she  smiled,  tossed  her 
head,  and,  walking  with  an  easier  step — more  like  a  wom- 
an of  fashion  to  a  trifling  raffle — drew  out  at  once  the 
handful.  It  was  not  in  her  code  to  risk  much  at  the 
game  of  life,  to  lose  more  than  a  pretty  little  pout  could 
adequately  deplore.  It  was  such  bad  form,  said  French- 
ified Spartanism,  to  show  one's  feelings,  though  only  to 
one's  self;  bad  form,  you  might  even  admit,  to  have 
them.  Heavens!  She  had  acted  like  an  adventuress, 
an  intrigante.  Dieu — p'tite  Celeste — impossible!  Ah, 
here  they  lay  in  her  palm,  half  a  dozen  little  scraps — the 
last.  What  pretty  excitement  in  a  raffle!  Oh,  she  dare 
hardly  look!  Her  heart  was  going  pitapat.  How  nice 
to  be  on  tenter-hooks  occasionally.  Society  life  is  so 
monotonous. 

Thus  she  acted  the  part  of  social  fribbler,  much  to  her 
own  edification,  proclaiming  to  the  deserted  avenue  the 
frivolous  bravery  of  a  modern  Spartan. 

Soon  she  had  come  to  Dismal  Row.  Her  eyes,  viva- 
ciously snapping  glances  at  the  world  in  general,  saw 
beside  her  the  rusty  iron  of  a  familiar  stoop.  Closing 
her  hand,  she  ran  gayly  up  the  steps,  for  once  insensi- 
ble to  the  imprisoning  arms,  those  out-at-elbow  ban- 
isters between  which,  as  a  rule,  she  almost  wriggled  for 
freedom,  but  now  smiled  pleasantly  as  though  in  a  rich 
embrace.  Admitting  herself  with  a  latch-key,  she  has- 
tened happily  to  her  room,  crossed  to  the  mantel-shelf, 
and  dropped  the  scraps  into  a  box  of  candy.  There- 

207 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

upon,  divesting  herself  of  the  street  costume  and  return- 
ing to  the  diaphanous  luxury  of  the  sea-green  kimono, 
she  woke  Bonhomme  from  dreams  on  the  sofa  and  held 
up  a  promising  finger. 

Drowsily  the  dachshund  flopped  up  to  a  sitting  post- 
ure, and,  petitioning  Fate  with  his  flapper -like  paws, 
wabbled  among  the  cushions. 

Fate,  with  a  tinkling  laugh,  brought  over  the  box  of 
bonbons.  Still  with  the  air  of  a  social  fribbler,  she  now 
returned  to  the  raffle.  "  If  I  win,"  said  she  to  the  sniffing 
nose,  "you  shall  have  a  chocolate." 

One  might  have  supposed  she  stood  in  a  drawing-room, 
surrounded  by  countless  luminaries  of  that  as  yet  far-dis- 
tant firmament,  the  haut  monde.  Already  in  fancy  she 
was  a  fixed  star,  brilliant,  sparkling,  planetary  to  none. 
What  was  she  drawing  for — some  beautiful  trifle?  Yes, 
and  costly — say  an  ormolu  clock.  With  an  air  she  held 
the  box  in  one  hand,  high,  so  as  not  to  see  its  contents, 
and  flitted  over  it  the  diminutive,  tapering  fingers  of  the 
other. 

At  last  she  drew.  Down  fluttered  a  flake  of  paper  to 
tease  the  sniffing  nose.  She  had  drawn  a  blank.  Yes, 
but  there  were  yet  a  few  chances  to  the  good.  Another 
and  another  she  picked  out  lightly,  till  a  flurry  of  scraps 
snowed  down  on  the  patient  supplicant,  all  of  them  de- 
void of  that  sweet  deliciousness  for  which  the  appetite 
of  Fate  and  her  minion  were  being  so  tantalizingly  whet- 
ted by  the  game. 

She  drew  the  last — drew  it,  looked  at  it,  and  started. 
Then  her  brows  contracted  and  her  glance  wandered  in 
bewilderment.  Was  this  the  prize?  Ce'leste,  with  a 
puzzled  look,  stared  at  the  scrap  of  paper,  until  at  last, 
the  luminaries  and  the  drawing-room  suddenly  dissolv- 
ing, she  laughed  aloud  a  short,  unpleasant  little  laugh, 
as  if  she  had  been  defrauded. 

So  much  for  the  Spartanism  of  a  mimic  fribbler.  She 

208 


The   Custodian    of   Night 

could  have  brooked  a  blank,  but  this  was  unexpected. 
Her  eyes  at  once  lost  their  scintillant  bravery.  The 
sparkle  died  to  a  gleam — the  gleam  of  jealousy. 

On  the  scrap  was  written  in  ink  the  name  of  a  woman. 

Celeste  selected  a  bonbon.  Bonhomme  licked  his 
chops.  "No,"  said  she.  "No,  I  didn't  win."  Denying 
him  the  dainty  as  a  reward,  she  appropriated  it  herself 
as  a  solace. 

The  bonbon  restored  refinement.  With  an  air  of  en- 
nui she  went  to  bed,  and  soon  was  worriedly  dreaming 
(she  afterwards  remembered)  that- a  mountain  of  ging- 
ham first  blocked  her  way  to  heaven,  then  ended  by 
crumbling  into  a  desert  of  scraps  of  paper,  wherein  she 
fell  to  digging  and  digging  for  something  or  other,  to  the 
tune  of  the  "  Marseillaise." 

So  through  the  night  she  lay  tossing  and  turning  in  the 
heat,  while  Bonhomme,  with  wakeful  blinks  at  the  dark- 
ness, was  possibly  complicating  his  hitherto  simple  phi- 
losophy by  dull-eyed  wonder  concerning  the  efficacy  of 
prayer. 


Ill 

The   Patron   of   the   Popular 

building  in  which  Matthew  Steele  had  offices 
1  dominated  by  several  stories  the  spire  of  a  neigh- 
boring church.  It  was  new,  narrow,  white,  and  had  been 
erected  quickly.  Three  elevators,  like  local  trains,  con- 
veyed passengers  to  the  suburbs  of  the  ground  floor,  while 
as  many  "expresses"  sped  upward  with  few  stops  to  the 
twentieth  story.  Here  were  the  offices  of  Steele 's  maga- 
zine, known  as  The  Crowd,  and  "  The  Quarter-Dollar  Li- 
brary "  of  paper  novels.  Here,  too,  somewhat  apart 
from  a  well-trained  army  of  accountants,  illustrators, 
hack  writers,  stenographers,  subscription  -  clerks,  and 
office-boys,  each  at  his  or  her  desk,  each  busy,  each 
earning  every  penny  of  the  salary  paid,  presided  Baal. 

By  a  system  of  electric  buttons  on  the  top  of  his  desk 
he  could  summon  at  will  the  head  of  any  department. 
Through  a  telephone  transmitter  below  these  buttons 
he  kept  in  touch  with  all  the  minutiae  of  trade  in  various 
cities  of  the  Union.  Every  detail  he  controlled  person- 
ally. Every  corner  of  the  offices  bore  testimony  to  a 
modern  grasp.  The  desks  were  of  metal,  and  the  letter 
cabinet,  even  the  chairs  and  scrap-baskets.  The  offices 
themselves,  of  course,  had  concrete  floors  and  metallic 
door-jambs.  "Fires,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "are  only 
profitable  in  Baxter  Street." 

Here  the  immemorial  sanctum  sanctorum  of  the 
editor  and  publisher  was  lacking.  Steele's  desk  in  the 
open  office  commanded  a  view  of  every  subordinate. 

210 


The    Patron    of  the   Popular 

Thus  within  focus  of  his  lenslike  eyes  lay  the  entire 
range  of  his  dominion.  By  a  glance  now  and  then  he 
could  apprise  himself  of  any  fluctuation  in  labor  value 
noticeable  in  the  smallest  cog  of  his  vast  machine.  His 
mere  presence,  however,  rendered  hitches  rare. 

To  gain  audience  with  Baal  was  not  difficult,  provided 
one's  name  and  reason  for  calling  were  not  withheld 
from  an  imp  of  the  realm,  ever  vigilant  on  guard. 

One  afternoon  in  midwinter,  a  breezy  young  woman, 
barely  concealing  a  smile  of  contempt  at  the  goblin's 
demand,  consented  to  this  formality.  She  was  dressed 
in  tight-fitting  black  cloth,  even  the  heavy  jacket  so  cut 
as  to  define  the  outlines  of  her  figure.  On  her  head  she 
wore  a  velvet  toque,  tilted  enough  to  reveal  a  wealth  of 
dark  and  lustrous  hair  and  accentuate  her  striking  piq- 
uancy. She  carried  lightly  in  one  hand  a  closely  rolled 
umbrella. 

In  a  moment  Celeste  had  been  admitted.  Through 
the  desert  of  workaday  people,  gray  with  the  dull  mo- 
notony of  rote — the  colorless  puppetry  of  Baal's  myr- 
midons— she  flitted  airily,  free  of  carriage,  light  of  step,  a 
vivid  impression  in  flesh  and  blood  contrasting  strongly 
with  routine-bound  automata. 

Arriving  at  Matthew's  desk,  she  seated  herself,  and  at 
once,  "I  have  come  to  ask — "  she  began,  breathlessly; 
whereupon,  as  fate  would  have  it,  up  came  a  second 
meddling  imp  with  an  urgent  message  for  his  god.  "  One 
moment,"  said  Steele,  and  read  the  letter. 

Celeste  turned  about  and  surveyed  his  domain. 

Across  the  room,  behind  a  low  rail,  sat  several  slaves 
of  the  writing  -  machine,  their  fingers  hammering  out 
the  toneless  music  of  commerce — clickety-tap,  click-tap. 
Near  these,  behind  a  wall  of  high,  sloping  desks,  a  line  of 
heads,  only  their  crowns  visible,  turned  ceaselessly  now 
this  way,  now  that,  belonging  to  slaves  of  the  ledger, 
slaves  of  the  Bible  of  Trade.  Occasionally  a  hand  ap- 

211 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

peared,  an  immense  page  turned  slowly,  a  head  bent 
closer,  a  pair  of  shoulders  stooped.  This  was  the  only 
variation.  From  everywhere  rose  an  almost  inaudible 
sound  of  droning — the  voice  of  the  humdrum  of  hack- 
ery, unhopeful,  lacking  life. 

Celeste  shuddered.  Could  she  ever  say  "yes"  to  the 
god  of  so  mechanical  a  system?  She  fluttered  a  glance 
at  him  now  as  he  sat  there,  imp  at  elbow,  reading  the 
letter  with  a  frown.  With  the  stump  of  his  right  fore- 
finger he  tapped  on  the  sheet,  then  followed  the  lines 
of  writing  with  it  as  if  to  index  the  matter  in  his  brain. 
The  fist  of  his  left  hand  was  clinched  beside  him  on  the 
desk.  His  coat,  too  large,  and  of  a  hard,  boardlike 
cloth,  dun-colored,  hung  stiffly  from  his  stooping  shoul- 
ders. His  collar,  shiny,  high,  and  wide  apart  at  the 
neck,  revealed  a  prominent  Adam's  apple.  Above  this 
the  chin,  square  and  self-assertive,  protruded  aggressive- 
ly under  his  straggling  mustache.  His  long,  clumsy 
nose,  blank  eyes,  sparse  brows,  low  forehead,  and  straw- 
hued  hair  completed  the  god  of  the  machine.  Between 
his  lips  he  was  mouthing  a  never-to-be-lit  cigar. 

Celeste  sighed.  With  a  veiled  uplift  of  her  eyes  she 
gazed  hopelessly  at  the  wall  behind  him.  On  this  hung 
a  line  of  lithograph  posters,  samples  of  those  that 
placarded  news-stands  to  advertise  "  The  Quarter-Dol- 
lar Library  "  and  The  Crowd.  One  of  these,  rather 
more  flamboyant  than  the  rest,  caught  her  attention. 

She  started.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated.  Drawing 
from  the  palm  of  her  glove  a  tiny  gold  bonbonniere,  she 
nipped  therefrom  with  thumb  and  forefinger  an  infini- 
tesimal lilac  lozenge.  Quite  she  had  forgotten  her  sur- 
roundings. The  words  of  Baal,  who  was  now  question- 
ing his  minion,  fell  meaningless  on  her  ears.  She  heard 
him  ask,  "  Who  brought  this  note?"  and  the  boy  answer, 
"A  messenger,  sir,  from  a  telegraph-office — no  address 
of  the  sender,"  but  the  words  failed  to  catch  her  heed. 

212 


The   Patron  'of  the   Popular 

Her  eyes  were  intent  on  the  poster,  her  brain  intenter 
still ;  her  ears  for  the  moment  were  like  sub-station  tel- 
egraph instruments  cut  off  from  the  main  office.  Soon, 
however,  they  were  reconnected. 

Steele,  nodding  away  the  imp,  turned  about  again. 
"You  were  going  to  tell  me — " 

"Was  I?" 

" — the  reason  of  your  coming." 

"Already  I  forget.  You  have  kept  me  waiting  so 
long." 

His  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  "  Business  before  pleasure, 
you  know." 

She  scanned  the  poster  line  casually.  "  Pleasure's  an 
uncertain  quantity;  not  so  business,  to  judge  by  these. 
Your  sales  must  be  positively  enormous." 

"Yes,  bigger  and  bigger." 

She  drew  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "There 
are  so  many  shop-girls  in  America." 

Steele  inclined  his  head,  not  at  all  put  out.  "That's 
true,  I'm  glad  to  say." 

"And  so  many  writers,"  she  pursued,  idly  meditating 
on  the  placards,  "who  satisfy  their  needs." 

"True  again,  I'm  glad  to  say." 

Celeste's  glance  rested  on  one  particular  poster.  (Why 
not  ?  It  was  the  most  conspicuous  of  all.)  "Who  is  this 
Dolly  Cohen?  What  a  horribly  sordid  name!  She,  I 
suppose,  is  one  of  the  chief  caterers  to  your  literary  mess. 
Think  of  it,  fifty  thousand  sold!" 

Steele  turned  and  looked  up  with  pride  at  the  striking 
advertisement.  Its  boast  was  this : 

"THE  ALTAR  OF  LOVE." 

A  Novel. 
By  DOLLY  COHEN, 

Author  of  "The  Flame  of  Folly." 

Fiftieth  thousand  now  in  press. 
213 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

"She's  a  great  seller,"  said  Steele,  glancing  down  at 
the  letter,  "  and  yet — " 

"And  yet  what?" 

"It's  very  queer." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

Steele  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  thrust  a  hand  in  each 
pocket.  "The  fact  is,  she's  a  mystery." 

"  Oh,  how  interesting!     Tell  me  about  it." 

"There's  little  to  tell.  Her  first  manuscript,  The 
Flame  of  Folly,  came  to  us  in  September.  The  book  sold 
like  wildfire.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  woman.  Her 
address  was  merely  a  private  box,  one  of  those  that 
questionable  characters  hire  in  little  cigar  -  shops  for 
clandestine  correspondence.  I  wrote  and  asked  her  to 
call,  but  she  never  did  so.  A  month  later,  in  came 
The  Altar  of  Love.  It  has  beaten  the  first  all  hollow.  I 
was  determined  to  meet  Miss  Cohen.  She  is  far  too 
valuable  to  lose.  I  wanted  to  make  a  contract  with 
her — give  her  a  salary.  The  royalties  are  excessive. 
I  wanted  to  have  her  under  my  eye,  right  here  in  the 
office." 

He  paused,  frowning. 

"Of  course,"  nodded  Celeste.    "Well?" 

"  I  sent  one  of  the  office-boys  to  watch  the  place  where 
her  letters  were  delivered — a  little  express  office  on  the 
West  Side — and  follow  her  home.  He  stood  there  hour 
after  hour  for  two  weeks,  but  not  a  woman  came.  At 
night  I  had  another  there,  with  the  same  luck.  And 
yet  we  know  she  received  communications  from  us, 
because  they  were  answered.  Moreover,  she  must  have 
sent  some  one  in  her  stead  who  saw  the  boys.  Read 
this!"  He  took  the  letter  from  the  desk  and  handed 
it  to  Celeste.  "Like  all  this  woman's  correspondence 
and  manuscript,"  he  observed,  hopelessly,  "the  thing  is 
typewritten." 

214 


"Matthew  Steele,  Esq.: 

"  DEAR  SIR, — As  I  have  repeatedly  stipulated  that  there 
must  be  no  personal  intercourse  between  us,  kindly  refrain 
from  disregarding  my  wishes.  Women  will  have  their 
whims,  you  know,  and  this  is  one  of  mine. 

"I  return  your  check.  Did  I  not  ask  you  for  actual 
cash?  Please  continue,  as  before,  to  send  bank-notes  in 
sealed  packages.  I  am  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  their 
transit  by  mail.  Yours  very  truly, 

"  DOLLY  COHEN. 

"P.  S. — I  shall  be  obliged  to  seek  another  publisher  if 
any  more  attempts  are  made  to  force  the  issue.  D.  C." 

Celeste  glanced  through  the  letter  twice.  "The  plot 
thickens,"  she  said,  at  last,  lightly. 

Steele  took  back  the  letter  and  thrust  it  in  a  pigeon- 
hole. "  I  sent  her  a  check,  hoping  she  would  use  it." 

"Why  should  that — " 

"Then  she  or  somebody  else  would  have  endorsed  it 
and  that  would  have  been  a  clew.  Depend  upon  it, 
Dolly  Cohen  is  a  pseudonym." 

"A  pseudonym!"  Celeste  shuddered  with  disgust. 
"  That  horrid,  cheap  name!  Who  would  choose  it?" 

"True,"  allowed  Steele;  "that's  what  I've  been  think- 
ing." 

Celeste  fell  to  tracing  arabesques  on  the  concrete  floor 
with  her  umbrella-point. 

"  You  see,"  said  Steele,  "it's  a  puzzler." 

"Yes,  quite  like  a  novel  itself.  Are  the  books  well 
written?" 

For  answer  Steele  pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  his 
ever-obtrusive  semi-forefinger.  "You've  seen  the  ad.," 
he  laughed,  shortly.  "Figures  are  the  only  critics  I  go 
by.  The  first  was  a  thriller,  with  plenty  of  color;  so  is 
the  second,  but  a  little  gamier,  a  little  more  spicy,  you 
know.  I  wrote  and  asked  her  for  one  like  that.  Hers 
are  the  only  books  I've  ever  published  in  cloth.  They 

215 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

were  both  so  quick,  catchy,  and  snappy,  so  much  livelier 
than  the  rest,  that  I  said  to  myself, '  These  will  sell  for 
more  than  twenty-five  cents.'  Great  mystery,  though, 
isn't  it?  I  think  I'll  have  it  written  up  before  long.  I'll 
offer  a  prize  in  The  Crowd  for  a  guess  at  Miss — or  Mrs. 
— Cohen's  identity.  Of  course  nobody  '11  know,  so  it 
don't  cost  a  penny.  Eh — what?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything,"  murmured  Celeste,  straight- 
ening up  and  flicking  a  speck  of  dust  from  her  skirt. 

This  trifling  motion  of  her  fingers  filled  perhaps  a 
second  of  time.  In  that  instant  her  mind  worked  with 
more  than  electric  rapidity.  A  decision  was  simulta- 
neous with  the  conception  of  an  idea,  yet  the  flicking 
away  of  the  speck  hid  it  completely. 

She  raised  her  head.  "Yes,  it  is  a  mystery,  and  yet 
how  rarely  you  fail,  Matthew!"  Her  lashes  drooped. 

Steele  said  nothing,  for  once  another's  open  esteem 
causing  no  protrusion  of  his  lower  jaw.  As  a  rule  it 
shot  forward,  self -confidently,  at  such  an  appreciation, 
but  now  hung  low,  his  under-lip  falling  from  the  line  of 
stained  teeth  with  vacuous  despondence. 

"  It's  true,"  she  nodded,  nibbling  a  second  lilac  dainty, 
which  brought  the  curves  of  her  mouth  into  play  and 
deepened  its  dimples. 

Steele  leaned  closer,  elbow  on  desk,  fingers  moving. 
"There's  another  woman  I  have  never  succeeded  in — " 

She  smiled  coquettishly.     "In  what?" 

"  In  getting  hold  of,"  he  concluded,  with  blunt  force. 

Celeste  surreptitiously  pressed  one  of  the  chatelaine 
charms  hanging  at  her  side  —  the  diminutive  silver 
hunchback,  her  favorite  porte-bonheur.  "It  was  about 
your  failure  in  this  direction  that  I  came."  She 
paused. 

"Go  on."  He  glanced  furtively  over  the  desk-top  at 
his  underlings,  for  once  ill  at  ease  near  the  droning  hive. 
"Go  on." 

216 


The   Patron   of   the    Popular 

Her  lashes  fluttered  and  drooped.  "You  so  rarely 
fail,"  she  whispered. 

He  shifted  his  chair  towards  her.     "What?" 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing.  I  must  hurry  off.  How  fool- 
ish to  have  supposed  that  one  could  talk  here!  I  had 
imagined — " 

Steele  frowned  at  the  hive.  "Wait,  we'll  go  where 
we  can  be  alone." 

"  No,  no ;  not  now.  I'm  no  longer  in  a  talkative  mood. 
I'm  hungry."  Her  laughter  tinkled  clear  and  musical 
above  the  monotonous  clicking  of  tlie  typewriters. 

Steele  consulted  his  watch.  "Come,  we'll  go  out  to 
dinner." 

"What!  Dinner  at  five?  I  never  dine  till  eight.  It's 
not  de  rigueur." 

"Well,  then,  say  eight.     I'll  come  for  you." 

Celeste  pursed  her  lips  consideringly  and  traced  anoth- 
er pattern  with  her  umbrella-point.  "But  you  haven't 
brought  him  yet." 

"That  Lloyd?" 

" Of  course  that  Lloyd.     Who  else?" 

Steele  gnawed  his  mustache.  "I  guess  he's  too  good 
to  turn  hack,  or  maybe  he's  gone  elsewhere.  There  are 
lots  of  others  who  would  put  him  in  harness.  Why 
don't  you  drop  that  nonsense?  Come,  we'll  say  eight 
o'clock  for  dinner." 

Ce'leste,  coquettishly  delaying,  glanced  up  at  him  with 
a  smile  and  a  pout.  At  last  the  smile  brightened  into  a 
"yes,"  and  she  rose  quickly. 

Along  the  aisle — the  king's  highway  of  the  Mammo- 
nian  realm — Baal  followed  her.  And  for  once  in  their 
lives  his  subjects  made  bold  to  lift  an  inquisitive  gaze, 
a  dead-and-alive  stare,  as  though  beginning  to  question 
his  sovereignty. 

In  the  hall  Steele  sought  to  detain  her.  "Tell  me — 
here — one  word." 

217 


The    Triumph   of    Life 

She  pushed  the  elevator  button.  "Wait,  you're  too 
impatient." 

"No,  you  must!"  He  caught  her  wrist,  his  eyes  moist, 
or,  rather,  damp,  so  lack-lustre  was  even  their  passion. 

The  elevator  rushed  up  behind  her.  The  gate  grated 
open.  She  backed  in.  The  gate  slid  to  between  them. 
"To-night!"  she  waved,  with  mischievous  mockery,  and 
straightway  descended  from  his  view,  gayly  as  the  pre- 
miere danseuse  of  Inferno  drops  homeward  through  a 
stage  trap. 

When  Steele  arrived  he  was  shown  to  her  room. 

She  greeted  him  mysteriously  and  shut  the  door. 
"Promise  you  won't  be  angry?" 

"What  do  you  mean?     Aren't  you  going?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  but — "  Her  bosom  was  all  a-flutter 
with  trepidation.  "I  hardly  dare — " 

"What  is  it?     Speak  out." 

"Will  you  promise?" 

"Yes,  I  promise." 

Finger  to  lips,  she  drew  him  to  the  curtained  recess, 
and,  parting  the  portieres,  hesitated.  "  Word  of  honor?" 

"Of  course!" 

She  darted  into  the  bedroom,  he  following  in  heavy 
bewilderment. 

Near  her  bed  the  candle  flickered  uncertainly.  In  a 
corner  beyond  the  light  stood  a  table  on  the  top  of 
which  some  bulky  object,  now  hidden  by  the  landlady's 
atrocious  quilt,  loomed  big  and  mysterious. 

Stepping  towards  it,  then  pausing,  hesitant,  timid, 
and  yet  on  edge  with  excitement,  Ce'leste  at  last,  tak- 
ing heart,  slipped  over  to  the  corner  and  threw  back 
the  quilt. 

There,  in  a  black  metal  cover,  stood  a  typewriting- 
machine  ! 

Steele  surveyed  it  blankly. 

2:8 


The   Patron   of  the   Popular 

Celeste  smiled  up  at  him.     "Behold  your  mystery!" 

He  started  forward ;  gazed  at  her.  Then  suddenly  his 
jaw  fell.  Never  had  she  seen  so  quick  a  flash  of  com- 
prehension spring  into  his  eyes. 

"You!"  he  almost  whispered.  "You — Dolly  Cohen! 
Gawd!"  The  flare  of  understanding  broadened.  "But 
I  knew  you  could  do  it!  I  always  said  so.  I  told  you  to 
try.  What  a  fool  I've  been  not  to  have  guessed  it!" 

Her  face  was  flushed  with  pride.  "And  it's  not  a 
pseudonym!" 

"  What,  you  don't  mean — " 

"Yes,  it's  my  true  name — my  own  poor,  cheap  little 
name.  Father  was  an  American  artist  who  died  in  Paris. 
Though  my  present  papa  would  stop  my  allowance  if  he 
heard  me  say  so,  I  was  born,  as  it  were,  informally." 

Steele  laughed  a  coarse  laugh.  Evidently  in  his  own 
mind  he  had  defined  the  episode  brutally. 

She  shuddered.  A  spade  should  never  be  called  a 
spade.  Bald  truth  was  against  all  delicacy.  "Come," 
she  cried,  with  quick  petulance,  "this  is  a  gloomy  place 
to  talk.  We'll  do  our  hobnobbing  at  dinner."  Catch- 
ing his  hand,  she  drew  him  out  after  her. 

In  a  corner  of  the  Cafe  M she  chatted  to  her  heart's 

content.  "  Oh,  we  must  have  a  little  wine — champagne 
— the  spirit  of  Paris!  Come  to  us  now,  dear  ghost  of  the 
sun's  last  ray!  .  .  .  Of  course,  Matthew,  you'll  break  your 
rule  on  such  an  occasion.  I  suppose  you  can  guess  what 
my  confiding  in  you  means?" 

Over  her  glass  she  repeated  the  glance  with  which 
she  had  once  sought  to  enmesh  another.  Then  it  had 
been  her  nature  challenging  Apollo ;  now  it  was  her  art 
surrendering  to  Baal.  And  the  art  that  should  have 
been  to  her  an  ugly  shame  was  a  pretty  little  sham  at 
which  her  innermost  self  was  laughing.  Nature  could 
be  counterfeited  to  a  nicety. 

219 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

Far  down  in  the  shadows  of  her  eyes  glimmered  lights 
as  of  will-o'-the-wisps,  drawing  him  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  influence  of  her  darkness.  Then  a  smile  broke 
over  her  features;  the  light  broadened.  Art  had  hinted 
that  nature  should  be  free — open — all  at  once  glad  in 
yielding.  "Oh,  you  stupid,"  she  whispered,  "to  sit 
there  glaring  at  me  .  .  .  not  knowing  ..." 

His  voice  was  throaty  and  dry.  "Not  knowing 
what?" 

She  lowered  her  lashes.  "That  —  a  'yes'  may  be 
spoken  in  silence." 

His  hand  closed  on  his  glass,  threatening  its  fragility. 
She  saw  the  stump  of  his  maimed  forefinger  whiten  with 
the  grip. 

"Don't,  don't,  Matthew!  My  spirit  is  in  that  glass. 
You'll  crush  it!"  His  eyes  at  the  moment  were  almost 
human,  or  at  least  bigly  animal.  The  long -harried  hound 
was  having  his  day  after  years  of  waiting.  Celeste  smiled. 
"  Do  I  make  you  forget  your  business?  .  .  .  Do  I ?  .  .  .  Do 
I?  ...  More  than  ever  before?  .  .  .  That's  right,  drink. 
Touch  your  glass  to  mine.  Nobody's  looking.  Here's 
to  Dolly  Cohen,  the  future  Mrs.  Matthew  Steele!  .  .  . 
That's  right.  And  you,  too,  shall  be  transformed.  Do 
you  remember  I  promised  that  one  night?  ...  A  blend- 
ing of  old  world  romance  with  new  world  commercial- 
ism. .  .  .  Here,  garc.on,  two  absinthes!  .  .  .  Matthew, 
we'll  drink  to  the  blend  in  opalescent  light!  Think  of 
it;  the  world  will  know!  And  the  money  that's  made 
is  all  in  the  family.  Send  me  the  checks  direct  after 
this;  there's  no  more  mystery.  Yes,  the  world  will 
know  Dolly  Cohen.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes;  on  the  whole,  I'd  bet- 
ter keep  that  name.  It's  famous.  It's  valuable.  .  .  . 
And  I'll  have  a  salon !  People  will  come — notables.  And 
you  shall  be  so  changed.  You  shall  be  positively  pol- 
ished. .  .  ."  She  laughed  extravagantly.  "Together 
we'll  reign  on  the  summit  of  Parnassus.  .  .  .  Good! 


The    Patron    of  the   Popular 

Here's  the  stuff  to  pledge  in.  Drink!  Drink  to  our 
wedding-day!" 

Steele,  carried  away  by  the  champagne,  more  still  by 
her  eyes,  and  even  further  by  the  moment  of  attainment, 
started  to  comply.  But  the  odor  of  the  absinthe,  subtle, 
vague,  indescribable,  made  him  hesitate.  He  sniffed 
uncertainly  at  the  brim. 

Celeste  bit  her  lips  behind  her  upraised  glass.  "  Quick! 
It's  an  acquired  taste.  I  felt  that  way  at  first  myself. 
Come — our  wedding-day!" 

She  touched  her  glass  to  his;  her  fingers  met  his  own. 
Her  glance  was  a  fatal  opiate.  The  strength  went  out  of 
him. 

"To  you  and  me,"  he  said,  crudely. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  tried  it  again. 
"Now  you  fascinate  me,"  she  told  him.     "Now  you 
are  different." 

By  the  end  of  the  month  she  had  taught  an  old  dog  a 
new  trick.  Not  unlike  the  beggar  Bonhomme,  he  found 
that  only  when  he  pleased  her  by  its  performance  did 
she  genuinely  smile  upon  his  devotion. 


IV 
The   Spirit   of   Vaudeoillc 

MARCH,  as  aggressive  as  ever,  played  the  lion  with  a 
roar.  The  wind,  a  great  swashbuckler  on  a  raid 
from  the  far  northwest,  offended  retiring  natures.  The 
streets  of  the  city  were  filled  with  biscumbered  snow. 
Cart  it  away  as  they  would,  the  White  Brigade  could 
not  succeed  against  the  alternate  fall  and  thaw.  Slush 
resulted.  At  this  particular  season — to  quote  Celeste — 
New  York's  was  a  "vulgar  climate." 

Pursuers  of  pleasure,  however,  braved  even  the  rib- 
aldry of  March.  Albeit  on  a  Sunday  morning  retiring 
natures  prove  worthy  of  the  name,  on  a  Saturday  night 
their  front  is  bolder. 

Observe  the  Corinthian  Music-hall,  for  example,  on  one 
particular  pre-Sabbatical  occasion. 

Hither  zealots  of  pleasure,  devotees  of  the  great  god 
Bosh,  reading  the  message  of  his  prophet  on  the  bill- 
boards, had  multitudinously  thronged.  The  god  and  his 
consort,  Fol-de-rol — who,  we  may  suppose,  is  the  su- 
preme soubrette — had  demanded  of  their  souls  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  shrine  of  the  Absurd.  Fanatical  in  their 
veneration  of  the  relics  there  to  be  displayed,  they  had 
girded  up  their  loins  and  come. 

The  place  was  packed  to  its  doors.  From  floor  to  roof, 
tier  on  tier,  sat  the  faithful,  some  irreverently  bored, 
some  devoutly  gay,  others  proving  their  zeal  by  the 
penance  of  standing  huddled  and  jostled  from  rail  to  wall. 

Where  orchestra,  balcony,  and  galleries  were  all  so 

222 


The    Spirit    otf  Vaudeville 

densely  crowded,  an  empty  space  was  noticeable.  All 
of  the  boxes  were  alive  with  faces  save  one,  on  a  level 
with  the  stage  and  adjoining  it,  which  had  as  yet  no 
occupants.  Towards  this,  with  a  kind  of  subconscious 
anticipation  of  curiosity,  many  eyes  now  and  again  were 
turned.  Its  emptiness  was  out  of  place.  It  palled. 
The  audience  wanted  to  be  complete.  There  was  yet  an 
entrance  to  be  made  in  the  extravaganza  on  the  hither 
side  of  the  footlights.  Time  and  again  the  glancing  eyes 
expected  to  see  new  figures  and  faces  enlivening  the 
blackness  of  that  right  -  hand  corner.  This,  however, 
was  but  the  psychological  effect  of  a  conspicuous  lack. 
Save  with  a  few  it  was  unappreciable. 

Perhaps  but  a  single  individual  regarded  the  box  im- 
patiently. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  large,  loose,  prodigal  build, 
who  from  a  seat  on  one  of  the  aisles  repeatedly  looked 
for  the  figures  and  faces.  Next  to  this  Philistine  a  com- 
panion— evidently  boon,  to  judge  by  their  intercourse 
— either  failed  to  notice  the  frequent  glances  or  ignored 
them  with  indifference. 

Near  the  knees  of  the  two  a  low  shelf,  projecting  back 
from  the  seats  before  them,  held  preventives  against 
suffocation  from  the  closeness  of  the  atmosphere.  These 
they  resorted  to  not  inoften.  No  sooner  were  the  tall 
glasses  empty  than  up  went  the  giant's  right  hand, 
clumsily  dominant,  whereupon  one  of  the  assiduous 
waiters,  always  alive  to  an  errand  of  mercy,  glided  with 
restoratives  down  the  aisle. 

From  the  comrades  twain,  as  from  their  fellow -pil- 
grims, rose  in  thick  clouds  the  incense  of  the  temple. 
And  the  orthodox  worship  was  laughter. 

A  couple  of  clownish  dialecticians,  having  sufficiently 
murdered  humor  and  the  Queen's  English,  had  just  gone 
wrestling  from  the  stage.  The  curtain  fell.  People 
took  notice  of  their  neighbors. 

223 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

"Big  crowd , ' '  remarked  O '  Brien .    "  Thundering  close ! ' ' 

Enoch  nodded.  Indolently  blowing  a  ring  of  ciga- 
rette smoke,  he  watched  it  ascend  through  the  heavy 
atmosphere.  Recently,  like  a  swimmer  after  a  dive  to 
the  depths,  he  had  risen  to  the  surface  of  life,  and  at 
present  lay  there  idly  floating  with  the  ripples. 

The  curtain  rose  again.  Another  sacred  relic  of  the 
faith  was  about  to  be  exhibited.  She  had  come  from 
Spain  once  before  in  the  eighties  and  had  returned  for  a 
last  farewell.  Evidently  time  and  home  had  dealt  kind- 
ly with  the  favorite.  Obviously  she  had  never  starved. 
But  what  if  she  had  grown  stout  ?  What  if  her  motions, 
once  alluring,  sensuous,  gypsy-wild,  now  somewhat  sug- 
gested a  Brobdingnagian  gambol?  A  fig  for  the  scoffing, 
irreverent  critic  who  had  lately  proclaimed  that  "a  Ru- 
bens bacchante,"  "a  feminine  Gargantua,"  was  come  to 
town!  Such  pagans  are  not  of  the  faith.  The  great  god 
Bosh  frowns  on  their  blasphemy.  What  if  she  had  grown 
fat?  Even  her  largeness  was  a  source  of  satisfaction. 
If  her  fame  appealed  to  the  World  in  the  crowd,  it  was 
this  very  amplitude  of  hers — coarse  and  orgiastic — that 
appealed  to  the  Flesh  in  them,  and  her  foreign  fire  to 
the  Devil. 

Even  now  she  had  a  way  with  her.  Again  and  again 
the  gods  encored,  and  the  farewell  was  by  no  means  a 
fiasco.  The  motif  of  the  Andalusian  dance  is  passion 
blent  with  pride.  This  she  interpreted  vehemently, 
until  at  the  last  she  stood  there  darkly,  scornfully  de- 
fiant, her  eyes  flinging  down  a  challenge  at  the  World, 
the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil.  This  was  her  last  finale. 
Making  her  exit,  she  veiled  her  smile  with  a  haughty 
frown.  She  seemed  to  mock  them,  and  they  liked  it. 

The  curtain  dropped.  A  buzz  and  hum  filled  the 
house;  hundreds  of  programmes  rattled.  What  next? 
(So  insatiate  is  the  appetite  for  change.) 

Waiters  sped  back  and  forth.  Here  and  there  an 

224 


The    Spirit    of  Vaudeoille 

arm  went  up,  a  head  turned,  a  finger  beckoned.  (So 
pressing  are  the  needs  of  thirst.) 

"Horribly  close,"  repeated  O'Brien,  gazing  at  the 
empty  box. 

Lloyd  said  nothing.  The  curtain  had  risen  again.  He 
glanced  at  the  stage.  A  French  poodle,  under  the  eye 
of  its  Parisian  master,  was  seated  at  a  miniature  piano. 
Once  or  twice  the  trainer  frowned  and  his  whip  twitched 
behind  him,  whereat  the  dog,  its  shaven  back  to  the 
footlights  and  tufted  tail  depending  from  the  piano- 
stool,  held  its  forepaws  over  the  broad  keys  and  with 
much  hesitation  picked  out  a  tune  at  last  recognizable 
as  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

O'Brien  laughed.  Enoch's  face  for  a  moment  was 
genuinely  amused. 

The  showman,  tricked  out  in  a  frilled  shirt  and  satin 
knickerbockers,  stepped  lightly  to  the  footlights,  clasped 
his  folded  opera-hat  to  his  heart,  and  bowed,  smiling. 
In  that  debonair  bow  and  smile,  as  in  the  dog's  peruke- 
like  tail,  the  spirit  of  vaudeville  seemed  eloquently  ex- 
pressed. 

Not  more  so,  though,  than  in  the  eyes  of  Enoch. 

Loud  laughter  and  applause  rewarded  the  musical 
caniche.  Like  the  Andalusian  lady,  he  was  popular. 
But  his  second  act — the  pawing  of  suspended  sleigh- 
bells — missed  fire. 

Some  one  had  appeared  far  down  in  the  empty  right- 
hand  corner.  Those  in  the  orchestra-chairs  turned  their 
heads,  those  in  the  balcony  leaned  forward.  At  once  the 
new-comer  caught  their  interest;  not  that  half  a  dozen 
in  the  whole  house  could  have  named  her,  but  because 
of  her  vivid  personality  and  brilliance  as  she  flashed 
into  the  shadows  of  the  box. 

Seating  herself  in  the  foremost  chair,  the  object  of 
this  curiosity  threw  off  a  long,  white  cape  embroidered 
in  gold,  and,  raising  her  lorgnette,  returned  with  viva- 
is  225 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

cious  interest  the  general  stare.  She  was  a  very  small 
woman,  and  wore  a  gown  entirely  of  white  velvet, 
which,  soft  as  the  faintly  olive  skin  above  it,  seemed 
almost  a  part  of  her  person,  and  had  apparently  no 
opening  whatever.  Contrasting  with  this,  her  hair,  coil- 
ed high,  coronet- wise,  looked  black  as  a  stormy  night, 
save  for  an  almost  purple  sheen,  as  now  and  again  she 
turned  her  head  and  the  electric  lights  glimmered  across 
it.  High  above  her  forehead,  in  the  centre  of  the  natural 
coronet,  lay  embedded  a  crescent  of  diamonds.  In  ad- 
dition to  this  she  wore  no  ornament  save  a  necklace  of 
antique  paste,  which  a  connoisseur,  had  one  inspected  it 
through  an  opera-glass,  might  have  classed  with  Pari- 
sian workmanship  of  the  Renaissance.  From  the  neck- 
lace, with  its  curiously  wrought  setting,  depended  a  dove, 
composed  of  brilliants,  of  the  sort  once  worn  by  devout 
court  ladies  to  symbolize  the  Third  Person  of  the  Trinity. 

This,  be  it  known,  was  the  young  woman  spoken  of  by 
an  obscure  periodical  as  the  "Queen  of  Bohemia."  Her 
books,  however,  by  which  she  had  won  pre-eminence  in 
a  certain  doubtful  coterie,  bore  a  name  far  more  sordid 
and  smacking  less  of  romance.  The  name  was  Dolly 
Cohen.  Yet  in  spite  of  this,  and  her  dark,  voluptuous 
beauty,  there  was  little  to  suggest  Semitic  descent,  ex- 
cept at  constantly  rarer  intervals  a  look  akin  to  cu- 
pidity which  had  been  recognized  by  the  dress-makers 
and  milliners  with  whom  she  had  first  bargained  after 
her  sudden  rise  to  what  the  doubtful  coterie  called  Fame. 

With  her  into  the  box  to-night  came  several  men, 
one  tall,  angular,  and  evidently  not  long  trained  to  the 
wearing  of  his  evening  clothes.  Lloyd  saw  the  figure 
of  this,  her  principal  courtier,  sway  uncertainly  as  it 
bent  over  her.  The  others,  who  seated  themselves  be- 
hind the  "queen,"  appeared  to  be  merely  a  few  white 
patches,  only  their  faces  and  shirt-fronts  vaguely  visible 
in  the  dark. 

226 


The    Spirit    off  Yaudeoille 

Goliath  gazed  at  the  box,  then,  being  answered  by  a 
wave  of  the  gold  lorgnette,  took  a  long  draught  from 
the  glass  before  him.  "She's  come." 

"Who?" 

"  Look  over  there.     Don't  you  remember?" 

Lloyd  followed  his  friend's  glance.  "Yes,  I  think  so; 
but — she — " 

"She  is  the  one  you  so  unceremoniously  refused  to 
meet  that  evening.  Lord,  you  put  me  in  hot  water!" 

Lloyd's  glance  rested  long  on  the  woman's  face.  She 
appeared  to  be  deeply  interested  in  the  stage. 

A  famous  Japanese  juggler,  having  supplanted  the 
Frenchman,  was  balancing  on  the  top  of  a  billiard-cue  a 
white  billiard-ball,  and  on  the  top  of  that  a  red  one. 

Her  eyes  were  seemingly  fascinated  by  the  tremulous 
spot  of  crimson. 

Lloyd  followed  her  gaze  and  watched  it  too. 

The  house  was  breathless. 

"She  writes  novels,"  announced  Gol,  looking  into  his 
glass.  "But  not  the  sort,  I  suppose,  that  you'd  deign 
to  read." 

Lloyd's  interest  in  the  red  spot's  equilibrium  seemed 
to  grow  more  intent.  Nevertheless,  "Does  she?"  he 
said,  mechanically.  "What's  her  name?" 

"The  dickens!  Don't  you  know?  I  forgot  you'd  been 
keeping  close  so  long.  It's  Dolly  Cohen." 

The  balls  fell. 

Is  there  not,  perhaps,  so  exquisite  a  delicacy  of  bal- 
ance in  these  feats  that  even  the  sudden  start  of  one  per- 
son in  a  breathless  audience,  or,  we  dare  almost  say,  a 
sudden  emotion,  might  trouble  the  ether  and  ruin  the 
performance  ? 

Even  O'Brien's  phlegmatic  placidity  was  disturbed. 
Scarcely  knowing  why  he  did  so,  he  turned  and  sur- 
veyed his  friend  inquiringly.  "What  did  you  say?" 

"Not  a  word." 

227 


The   Tri-umph   of   Life 

"That's  queer.  I  thought — Lord,  man,  what's  wrong? 
Here!"  He  held  his  glass  out. 

Enoch  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "No;  perhaps 
I've  had  enough  already.  The  air,  as  you  say,  is  sti- 
fling." 

"But  whiskey  doesn't  turn  one  white  as  a  sheet." 

"Well,  you  see,  somehow — oh,  but  you  can't  under- 
stand. My  own  fate  seemed  to  become  wrapped  up  in 
the  balance  of  that  red — " 

"Bah,  that's  nervousness — or  the  liver!  Have  you 
been  bothered  about  anything  lately?" 

To  this  there  was  no  answer. 

"I've  got  it,"  suggested  O'Brien.  "Come  with  me 
afterwards  to  Dolly's.  There's  a  supper  every  Saturday 
night.  She'd  cure  any  man  of  moping." 

Enoch  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't  mind  going.  She's  irreproachable. 
Being  Parisian,  she's  Frenchy,  of  course;  but,  honestly, 
Dolly  is  as  good  as  can  be.  Now  just  to  show  you.  When 
I  first  knew  her  she  had  assumed  a  French  name  because 
it  sounded  well.  Her  father  was  an  American  Jew  who 
lived  in  the  Quarter.  Well,  the  old  man  showed  up  one 
day  and  she  hadn't  the  heart  to  drop  him,  so  back  she 
goes  to  her  real  name,  though  she  detests  the  very  sound 
of  it.  She  told  me  all  this  herself.  I  call  it  pretty 
square  for  one  like  her.  You  see,  she  is  way  above 
him." 

Enoch  lighted  another  cigarette.  ' '  Have  you  seen  this 
Mr.  Cohen?" 

"No,  nor  has  anybody  else.  She  says  she's  tried  to 
raise  him  to  her  level,  but  I  suppose  it's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion to  make  the  old  duck  presentable." 

Lloyd  nodded  with  a  vague  smile.     "  I  suppose  it  is." 

"You'd  better  come,"  said  Goliath,  and  Enoch's 
glance  stole  round  to  the  box,  slowly,  almost  fearfully, 
yet  with  a  certain  fascinated  look  of  exploration,  not  un- 

228 


The    Spirit    of  Yaudeoille 

like  that  of  a  child  who  peers  towards  a  dark  corner  in 
which  he  dreads  to  find  a  bogie. 

Her  eyes  met  his. 

"Thanks,"  he  said  to  O'Brien,  with  a  swift  transition 
to  reckless  gayety,  "I  will  " 


V 
The   Queen    of   Bohemia 

CAST  aside  is  the  cocoon  of  the  chrysalis ;  the  butter- 
fly has  emerged  resplendent;  the  long-previsioned 
"some  day"  is  at  last  the  present. 

Attend  we  now  at  the  bower  of  the  butterfly,  the  court 
of  the  Queen  of  Bohemia. 

Beyond  doubt  the  royal  apartment  even  outshone  the 
prevision.  No  longer  did  jarring  notes  —  hideous  dis- 
cords of  decoration — cry  to  heaven  of  a  regal  taste  de- 
spoiled by  boarding-house  atrocities.  All  was  as  it 
should  be.  So,  at  least,  proclaimed  the  queen  regnant. 

She  took  to  the  small  but  luxurious  suite  in  a  white 
marble  building  not  far  west  of  Broadway  as  the  pro- 
verbial duck  to  water,  the  cat  to  cream.  Yes,  this — 
this — was  the  scene  of  the  "some  day" — her  paradise. 
No  longer  did  fate  demand  a  dreary  probation  in  purga- 
tory. After  years  of  waiting  she  had  come  to  her  own. 
At  last  Griselda  was  in  the  princely  palace,  and  though 
the  motives  of  Celeste  had  not  been  quite  so  ingenuous 
as  those  of  the  sore-tried  damsel,  at  least  her  patience 
had  proved  as  worthy  of  reward. 

How  she  loved  to  heighten  the  realization  of  attain- 
ment by  repeated  surveys  of  the  drawing-room,  to  note 
each  separate  advance  with  rapturous  eyes!  For  in- 
stance, the  velours  curtains  were  now — praise  Heaven! — 
superseded  by  hangings  of  heavy,  yellow  damask,  while 
the  reproductions  of  those  delicate  fancies  by  Boucher 
and  Watteau,  and  the  Whistler  etching,  hung  as  they 

230 


The    Queen    o£   Bohemia 

should  against  patternless  paper  of  a  pale-saffron  tint, 
which  not  only  held  and  mellowed  the  lamp-light,  but 
harmonized  well  with  several  curious  bowls  and  vases  of 
chrysanthemums  always  distributed,  as  if  at  random, 
under  the  lamps.  Better  still  the  destiny  of  Time  and 
Love.  Instead  of  a  sojourn  at  the  hostel  of  the  Three 
Brass  Balls,  they  and  their  ormolu  charge,  now  no  longer 
degraded  to  a  mustard  -  colored  mantel -piece — odious 
memory!  —  were  happily  ensconced  on  a  low,  wooden, 
ivory-white  chef-d'oeuvre  of  the  cabinet  craft,  supported 
by  miniature  pilasters,  whereup  a  -number  of  delicately 
carved  Ariels  were  flying  with  nosegays  for  a  nymph 
prone  in  slumber  under  the  shelf. 

But  the  taste  of  Celeste — or  Dolly,  to  use  the  name  of 
her  fame — the  taste  so  suddenly  rendered  gratifiable — 
had  apparently  lost  its  balance,  and,  now  that  she  was 
independent  of  convention,  made  bold  to  dispute  the 
aesthetic  value  of  that  former  prerequisite,  the  Touch 
Refined. 

Here  and  there,  in  color  or  design,  some  daring  con- 
trast, some  outre"  bravado  in  ornamentation,  betrayed  a 
lack  of  that  rich,  confident  quietude  observable  in  older 
quarters  of  the  town. 

And  the  most  outre"  of  all  these  decorative  surprises 
were,  with  few  exceptions,  the  guests  themselves.  A 
popular  and  spicy  society  weekly,  chaffing  its  obscure 
contemporary  who  had  dubbed  her  Bohemia's  Queen, 
had  recently  likened  her  realm  to  a  beautiful  pasteboard 
Parnassus  in  the  bewildering  -extravaganza  of  Gotham — 
a  mock  mountain  whereon  indigent  supernumeraries, 
donning  the  lion's  skin,  carnivorously  devoured  game 
suppers  and  regaled  themselves  with  nectareal  cham- 
pagne. 

More  perceptive  than  many  of  her  kind,  Dolly  had  in- 
wardly confessed  to  the  neatness  of  the  thrust.  None 
could  know  better  than  she  that  hers  was  not  the  sum- 

231 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

mit  of  attainment.  This  she  considered  the  first  heaven. 
The  seventh  yet  reared  its  pinnacle  above  her.  Of  course, 
her  Parnassans  were  only  skin-deep  lions ;  but  she  could 
practise  well  enough  on  these  in  order  at  last  to  tame 
and  drive  the  genuine  celebrities. 

To-night,  as  usual,  behind  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes  lay 
deep  a  look  of  categorical  inspection.  Under  her  smile 
she  frowned.  The  shams  were  still  in  the  majority. 
What  a  motley  comic-opera  court  she  kept !  Pah !  She 
must  weed  them  out  remorselessly.  What  a  stagy  lot 
they  were,  and  how  impossible!  Probably  to  the  un- 
initiated many  would  have  been  awe-inspiring — the  fur- 
and-mane  befools  children.  Perhaps  to  the  inexperienced 
each  of  the  notables  would  have  appeared,  in  his  way,  a 
phenomenon,  a  kind  of  temperamental  freak,  a  striking 
personality,  unique  and  apart  from  the  ordinary  ruck  of 
human  nature.  But  Dolly,  singularly  gifted  with  a  fac- 
ulty of  social  divination,  knew  better.  Most  were  but 
types,  hackneyed  examples,  of  a  class  of  human  plati- 
tudes. Notice,  for  instance,  the  wrecked  virtuoso,  a 
short  man,  painfully  obese.  He  sat,  as  a  rule,  in  a  cor- 
ner with  an  air  of  everlasting  lethargy,  his  sallow  cheeks 
and  the  bulgy  substructure  of  his  chin  effectually  con- 
cealing whatever  amazing  collar  and  scarf-pin  he  may 
have  boasted.  The  name  of  this  melancholy  poseur,  va- 
riously mispronounced  save  for  its  final  ski,  signified 
Polish  origin.  According  to  the  prevalent  notion,  he  had 
once  been  a  great  violinist,  but,  alas!  on  a  certain  fateful 
night,  of  which  there  were  numerous  romantic  legends, 
his  instrument,  a  beloved  Stradivarius,  had  been  stolen 
from  his  room.  Then  and  there,  under  the  weight  of 
grief,  he  had  sworn  never  again  to  take  bow  in  hand  until 
his  departed  inamorata  had  been  regained. 

Another  case,  somewhat  similar  in  pathos,  was  that  of 
a  long-necked  lady  across  the  room.  She  had  been,  they 
said,  a  wonderful  soprano,  who  was  soon  to  have  made 

232 


The  Queen   of  Bohemia 

her  de"but  at  the  Metropolitan,  when,  alack!  owing  to  her 
charitable  instincts  and  delight  in  ministering  to  the  poor 
in  the  wintriest  weather,  she  had  contracted  one  day  a 
severe  malady  of  the  larynx,  and  had  been  forced  to 
speak  in  a  cracked  whisper  ever  since. 

These  two  unfortunates,  like  many  who,  but  for  cer- 
tain misgivings,  might  derive  a  pleasurable  companion- 
ship in  misery,  avoided  each  other  with  studious  care. 

They,  however,  were  exceptional  in  deserving  sym- 
pathy. The  majority,  according  to  the  general  belief, 
were  really  an  enviable  lot.  Observe,  for  instance,  the 
proverbial  grave  and  portly  gentleman  who  stood,  as  a 
rule,  with  one  elbow  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  wore  on  the 
lapel  of  his  shiny  frock-coat  a  medal  concerning  which 
there  was  poignant  curiosity.  His  manner  of  speech, 
excepting  an  occasional  low  ejaculation,  such  as  "Di- 
able!"  "Sapristi!"  and  the  like,  was  patriotic  in  accent  if 
not  in  words.  The  medal,  which  unfortunately  bore 
some  Eastern  inscription,  was  declared,  despite  varying 
opinions,  to  be  the  emblem  of  some  Egyptian  or  Arabic 
order,  conferred  upon  only  one  or  two  prominently  val- 
orous soldiers  in  a  hundred  years.  Its  wearer  modestly 
evaded  questions  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  silent  con- 
cerning his  Legion  of  Honor  or  Victoria  Cross. 

As  though  to  shame  this  gentleman  for  his  foreign  ten- 
dencies, a  short,  thick-set  individual,  with  flaxen  hair 
and  rubicund  countenance,  wore  an  American  flag  in  his 
button-hole,  and  at  the  end  of  an  evening  frequently 
would  strike  up,  with  childlike  ingenuousness,  "My 
country,  'tis  of  thee."  His  name  was  Herr  Wunderlich. 

In  addition  to  these  in  the  company  there  were  many 
others  scarcely  less  worthy  of  regard:  several  painters 
whose  productions  were  humbly  termed  "studies" 
(which  should  be  looked  at  from  afar) ;  several  poets 
whose  efforts  were  too  good  for  publication,  too  sacred 
for  the  perusal  of  a  profane  world. 

233 


The  Triumph    of    Life 

This,  of  course,  allowed  Dolly,  was  no  more  the  true 
Bohemia,  which  detests  shams,  than  the  true  Society  (at 
present  she  spelled  it  with  a  capital  "  S  "),  which,  at  least, 
wears  affectations  gracefully.  But,  fortune  be  thanked! 
already  Society  was  faintly  tapping  at  her  door.  No 
woman,  it's  true,  had  yielded  as  yet — Heaven  speed  the 
day  of  a  woman's  coming! — but  a  number  of  callow, 
well-dressed  youths  had  responded  to  her  roundabout 
invitations.  Sweetly  she  smiled  on  these  lambs  among 
the  lions.  These,  at  least,  were  real.  They  had  sisters, 
they  had  mothers.  Some  day — ah,  still  that  inevitable 
"some  day" — after  the  mock  lions  had  been  driven  to 
their  lairs,  would  it  not  be  possible  to  beguile  that  flock 
of  wary  sheep  within  her  fold  ? 

Cogitating  thus  beneath  her  dazzling  vivacity,  Dolly 
received  her  court.  At  midnight,  in  the  large  bay- 
window,  she  sat  enthroned  in  an  antique  arm-chair  of 
massive  and  majestic  proportions,  which  served  to  ac- 
centuate the  diminutive  piquancy  of  her  form.  The 
wood -work  of  the  chair's  back,  heavily  carved  with 
griffons,  wiverns,  and  other  heraldic  devices,  framed  a 
high  expanse  of  brass-studded,  scarlet  leather.  Against 
this  her  head,  surmounted  by  her  storm-black  hair  in 
which  the  diamond  crescent  vividly  glittered,  conveyed 
a  striking  impression.  Idly  extended  on  the  chair- 
arms,  her  own,  sleeved  in  the  white  velvet,  contrasted 
markedly  with  the  rough-wrought  carving  of  the  wood. 

Before  her,  at  the  moment  of  enthronization,  stood 
one  of  the  lambs.  "  Please  forgive  me,"  he  bleated,  "  for 
not  having  come  till  to-night,  but — " 

She  smiled  graciously.     "But — ?" 

"Ah,  well;  you  know,  I — " 

"Ho!"  she  laughed.  "I'm  not  sure  you  deserve  for- 
giveness. There  seems  to  be  no  excuse."  Then,  as  if 
aside:  "Many,  I'm  told,  would  be  glad  of  one  to  come." 
The  lamb  looked  so  helplessly  doleful  that  Dolly  must 

234 


The  Queen   of   Bohemia 

perforce  metaphorically  pat  him  into  ease.  "  I  ask  very 
few,  you  know."  (Alas!  thought  she,  too  few  of  the 
right  sort.  What  irony  in  the  compliment!) 

The  lambkin  raised  his  head.     "Oh,  really,  now — " 

The  patting  process  continued.  "  It's  true ;  but,  some- 
how, after  I  saw  you  that  first  night,  I  couldn't — "  She 
lowered  her  lashes. 

From  that  very  moment  he  was  hers.  So  gentle  was 
the  shepherdess  with  her  flock,  so  guileless  were  the 
hearts  of  her  lambs. 

At  once  growing  bolder,  he  proceeded,  as  it  were,  to 
gambol  with  all  manner  of  awkward  playfulness  in  repar- 
tee. Inwardly  she  sighed;  outwardly  she  smiled  upon 
his  antics.  Ever  and  again  she  was  casting  covert 
glances  at  the  clock.  "Yes,  still,"  she  prettily  tempo- 
rized within  herself — "still  the  woman  is  sitting  by  the 
Forge  of  Life,  waiting.  Throw  her  the  heart,  Love. 
Throw  her  the  heart,  hot  from  your  anvil,  before  the 
old  Reaper  spies  her."  She  looked  at  the  figures;  the 
face  of  the  timepiece,  as  usual,  propounded  a  more 
perplexing  riddle.  Thanks  to  its  tittuppy  embellish- 
ment, she  could  not  discern  from  across  the  room 
whether  or  not  her  chances  were  seriously  diminished. 
Would  he  come?  Was  it  already  too  late  to  expect 
him? 

Before  long  all  the  lambs  had  gathered  about,  and 
were  gambolling  to  their  hearts'  content.  But  soon  the 
notable  of  the  Arabian  order,  martially  striding  forward, 
descended,  wolf-like,  straight  upon  the  fold.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  had  monopolized  the  conversation.  Faint  of 
heart,  the  flock  dispersed.  To  flatter  him,  she  smiled 
with  commiseration  at  their  retreating  backs,  and  whis- 
pered: "That  was  worthy  of  Sennacherib.  But  —  the 
poor  little  things! — how  could  you?" 

Sennacherib  regarded  her  with  imperious  mien  and 
bent  over  her  stiffly.  "Why  do  you  look  at  the  clock? 

235 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

He  won't  come.  The  boy  you  told  us  about  has  more 
good  sense  than  any  of  us." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  wearily.  "Why  don't  you 
leave  me  for  good?  I'm  not  keeping  you." 

"But  you  are." 

"How?"  Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile;  she  moist- 
ened them  almost  imperceptibly. 

"I  don't  know.     That's  the  worst  of  it." 

Dolly  laughed  with  pleasure.  "Oh,  Sennacherib,  Sen- 
nacherib, do  I  offer  you  lambs  to  prey  upon  for  noth- 
ing— not  to  speak  of  grouse,  terrapin,  and  red-heads?" 

The  general,  straightening  up  in  wrath,  scowled  and 
gnawed  his  mustache.  Conceiving  a  dramatic  speech, 
he  would  thereupon  have  delivered  it,  but  was  abashed 
to  find  her  eyes,  utterly  heedless  of  his  umbrage,  gazing 
dolorously  at  the  door.  The  speech  fell  to  pieces  in 
his  brain.  "What  folly!"  he  mouthed,  catching  at  a 
fragment  of  the  wrecked  philippic — "what  utter  folly! 
Why  do  you  look?  He  won't  come." 

Dolly  shrugged  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"I  repeat,"  continued  Sennacherib,  delving  further  in 
the  debris,  "he  has  more  sense.  Perhaps  he  has  been 
warned.  He  knows  what  idiots  we  are  to  worship  you 
so.  How  insane  we  are  to  be  such  slaves!  How  posi- 
tively egregious — yes,  egregious!"  The  word  evidently 
pleased  his  grandiloquence. 

But  Dolly  gave  no  sign  of  admiration.  The  clock  was 
striking.  The  hammer  of  Cupid  fell.  Ting,  rang  the 
tiny  heart  on  the  anvil — twelve  times.  Hearing  a  step 
in  the  hall,  she  shot  a  glance  at  the  door,  then  as  quickly 
looked  away. 

"  I  tell  you,"  proclaimed  the  bemedalled  cavalier,  grow- 
ing coldly  disquisitious,  "there  is  no  use — " 

"  Enough!"  she  whispered,  with  a  sudden  mocking  up- 
lift of  her  eyes.  "I  surrender.  It  would  now  be  the 
height  of  folly  to  watch  the  door.  He  has  come."  Her 

236 


The   Queen   of   Bohemia 

laughter,  sharp  and  musical  as  Cupid's  hammer,  tinkled 
amid  the  general  chatter  and  rustle  like  sleigh-bells  in  a 
storm. 

Enter  the  biggest  of  the  Philistines,  Goliath  by  name. 
To  the  right  and  left,  bowing  unceremonious  good-nat- 
ured greetings,  he  made  directly  for  the  throne.  The 
general,  with  a  muttered  "  Diavolo!"  retreated  haughtily. 
The  queen,  appearing  not  to  notice  her  belated  ambassa- 
dor, half  turned,  and  at  once  became  interested  in  low- 
ering the  lamp-wick  beside  her. 

The  chatter  and  rustle  had  fallen  to  a  hush.  Behind 
the  familiar  figure  of  Goliath  came  that  of  a  stranger,  an 
airy  youth,  who,  to  judge  by  the  fling  and  natural  ease 
of  his  bearing,  was  neither  a  lion  nor  yet  a  lamb. 

One  and  all,  they  looked  on  curiously  while  O'Brien 
ushered  him  into  the  presence.  "I've  brought  an  old 
friend  to-night.  Do  you  mind?" 

Dolly  turned.  "Of  course  not."  The  tone  sounded 
conventionally  cordial. 

Goliath  stepped  aside,  the  stranger  forward.  "  I  want 
to  introduce,"  said  the  giant  envoy,  "Mr.  Lloyd." 

With  an  air  of  frank  pleasure  her  majesty  held  out  a 
hand.  For  an  instant  Enoch  paused  with  a  puzzled  look, 
as  though  forgetting  his  surroundings.  He  was,  at  the 
moment,  one  might  have  said,  face  to  face  with  some 
amazing  mystery. 

Recovering  himself  quickly,  he  took  her  hand.  As  he 
did  so,  her  eyes  seemed  baleful  with  an  intimate  per- 
plexity almost  equal  to  his  own. 

"Mr.  Lloyd? — Lloyd?  Surely  I've  heard  that  name. 
Are  you  Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Suppose?  How  enigmatical!  Are  you  the  author 
of  The  Greatest  Good?" 

"I  was." 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  and  surveyed  him  with  daring 
237 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

admiration.  Turning  to  the  others  with  a  dash,  "What 
ho!"  called  her  mock-majesty.  "Here's  an  original! 
Here's  a  riddle!  Foh!  you  are  all  prosaically  lucid  in 
comparison.  Peers  of  the  realm,  give  ear!  Here's  a 
greater  than  you  all!" 

She  turned  to  Enoch.     "Kneel,  sir  knight.     Kneel." 

Lloyd  hesitated.  What  wild  tomfoolery  was  this,  and 
at  their  very  first  meeting?  Had  ever  another  such  a 
reckless  fling,  such  verve,  such  bewildering  vivacity? 
His  cheeks  flushed,  his  brain  whirled.  This  was  living 
at  a  gallop.  Her  mood  caught  him.  First  she  had 
made  him  embarrassed  by  crying  him  to  the  crowd.  In- 
stantly he  had  felt  her  power — had  conceived  a  fear  of 
it;  then,  in  a  twinkling,  that  power  was  on  his  side. 

"Kneel,  I  say.     What,  sirrah,  do  you  hesitate?" 

He  knelt. 

Over  his  head  she  held  a  gracious  hand.  "I  create 
thee — "  she  proclaimed,  loftily;  then,  laughing,  "Well, 
what  do  I  create  thee?  Yes,  I  have  it.  Thou  shalt  be 
Lord  High  Executioner."  She  started  in  spite  of  her- 
self. "No,  no,  no!  Not  that!"  She  bent  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear:  "Not  that,  never  that,  I  pray  you." 
Then  erect  again  and  aloud:  "Thou  shalt  be  Lord  High 
Chancellor,  Keeper  of  the  Seals  —  the  seals  of  —  er  — 
state  papers."  Once  more  she  bent  to  him.  "Manu- 
script, I  mean."  She  straightened  up.  "First  Lord  of 
the  Treasury."  Then  again,  under  her  breath,  "Very 
generous,  of  course,  and  the  queen  won't  rob  you  any 
more."  Whereafter,  in  sovereign  accents,  "Rise,"  she 
commanded — "rise,  my  Lord  No-name,"  and  as  he  did 
so,  "  Or,  rather,  my  lord  of  two  names,"  she  whispered  in 
his  ear. 

"What  in  the  world — "  began  Enoch,  st?rting  back. 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  her  majesty,  and  he  controlled 
himself  with  a  laugh. 

"Vive  la  reine!"  bleated  a  daring  lamb  near  the  piano, 
238 


The   Queen   off  Bohemia 

who,  being  thereupon  terrified  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice,  retreated  behind  his  fellows. 

"Vive  la  reine!"  murmured  the  flock,  taking  heart  of 
their  numbers  to  gambol  under  her  smiles. 

"Vive  la  reine!"  cried  the  bubbling  Herr  Wunder- 
lich. 

"Vive  la  reine!"  rolled  the  be-medalled  cavalier,  em- 
phatically correcting  the  pronunciation  of  his  predeces- 
sors. 

Lloyd,  surveying  them  all,  at  first  looked  utterly  be- 
wildered. The  whole  of  bedlam  seemed  to  be  clamoring 
about  his  ears.  Of  late  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous  had  not 
been  touched;  almost  he  had  lost  it.  Fate  had  stolen  it 
from  him.  In  the  midst  of  this  motley  court  he  felt  like 
Alice  in  Wonderland.  But  soon  the  naivete*  of  genuine 
youth — that  never-amazable  quality  which  enabled  Alice 
to  look  upon  the  Astonishing  as  though  it  were  the  Nat- 
ural— came  to  his  rescue.  Had  the  melancholy,  stout 
gentleman  in  the  corner  then  and  there  approached  him 
saying,  "  Sir,  I  am  a  walrus,"  he  would  have  bowed  with 
grave  formality.  The  spirit  of  inanity  had  entered  into 
him — the  soul  of  Fol-de-rol.  They  were  all  like  so  many 
nonsense  rhymes,  and  he  their  chuckling  reader.  His 
humor  had  been  touched.  Correctly,  Dolly  had  seen  it 
latent  in  his  eyes — and  something  else. 

As  Goliath  turned  away,  she  now  proceeded  to  please 
that  something.  Again  addressing  the  roomful,  her  voice 
became  ironical,  even  caustic.  "Mr.  Lloyd's  book,  The 
Greatest  Good,  unlike  so  many,  was  not  '  too  beautiful  to 
print . '  "  With  whi  ch  pleasantry  she  turned  towards  him , 
adding,  in  simple  earnestness,  "Mr.  Lloyd,  it  flatters  me 
to  have  you  here." 

Enoch  by  now  was  more  than  at  ease;  he  felt,  for  the 
first  time  in  many  months,  almost  elated.  Yet  they 
were  a  despicable  set — abominable. 

Apparently  she  read  the  latter  thought.  "  Queer  lot," 

239 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

she  whispered,  "aren't  they?  I  use  them  as  types,  you 
know."  Her  eyes  were  scanning  them  amusedly. 

"  You  f  Oh,  of  course;  but — er — you  must  be  very 
daring — very  daring  indeed,"  he  repeated,  loudly. 

She  flashed  a  defiant  glance  at  him.  "Look  here," 
she  nervously  asked,  "do  you  intend  to  betray  me? 
No,  no;  of  course  you  won't."  She  regained  her  light 
composure.  "  Remember,  you're  not  the  executioner. 
But  come,  you  must  meet  them  individually.  Now 
there's  a  type  in  the  corner — a  virtuoso,  if  you  please, 
gone  to  rack  and  ruin.  His  name  is  Legion.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  ends  in  ski.  I  call  him  Mr.  Blankski,  be- 
cause I  can't  remember  the  first  syllable.  Pathetic  fig- 
ure, isn't  he?  Poor  man,  his  sighs  assure  me  he  was  a 
great  violinist  once,  but  now  he  mourns  a  stolen  Strad- 
ivarius.  Then  over  there,  near  the  mantel-shelf,  behold 
Sennacherib.  He  knows  the  double  meanings  of  twenty 
different  languages.  Look  at  the  flock  of  lambs  near  the 
piano.  Those  are  his  victims.  When  they  make  so  bold 
as  to  sing  my  praises,  down  he  pounces  and  scatters  them 
abroad.  And  there,  near  the  dining-room  door — no, 
don't  look  now,  wait  a  minute — stands  a  pathetic,  some- 
time soprano.  Her  voice  froze  within  her  one  winter's 
night  while  she  was  ministering  to  the  poor.  I  call  her 
the  Snark.  A  peculiar  specimen.  Snarkus  redivivus. 
See!  Now  you  may  look.  Isn't  she  a  snark?"  Dolly 
laughed  nervously. 

.Thus  she  ran  through  the  list  of  her  leonine  celebri- 
ties like  a  showman  at  the  Zoo,  while  underneath  this 
running  fire  her  nerves  were  on  edge  with  anxiety  lest 
she  should  fail  to  hold  him  as  she  wished.  "Which  do 
you  want  to  meet ?  What?  None  at  all?  Oh,  but  you 
must.  They  are  all  dying  to  know  you." 

Lloyd  surveyed  the  room  with  amused  contempt. 

By  the  cleverest  move  imaginable  she  had  taken  him 
into  her  confidence.  Whatever  she  might  be,  this  daz- 

240 


The   Queen    of   Bohemia 

zling  little  influence  beside  him  was  immeasurably  above 
the  rest.  He  and  she  were  again  merely  spectators  at  a 
vaudeville  performance.  It  was  to  laugh. .  He  did  so; 
but  suddenly  he  started.  His  eyes  had  roamed  from  the 
Snark  to  a  pair  of  heavy  portieres,  which,  being  slightly 
parted,  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  the  dimly  lighted  dining- 
room. 

"Who  is  that?     Who  is  that  in  there  peering  at  me?" 

Following  his  gaze  she  bit  her  lip  and  uttered  a  low 
laugh,  less  silvery  than  before.  "Oh — that?  It's  Mat- 
thew Steele." 

"Matthew  Steele?" 

"Yes;  but  why  this — 'amaze,'  as  we  say  in  novels?" 

"We?" 

"Of  course,  we!  I  tell  you  it  must  always  be  we. 
Surely  you  wouldn't — " 

Lloyd  shrugged.  "You  talk  in  riddles.  If  I  hadn't 
a  certain  dim  suspicion,  based  on  gossip — " 

"Gossip!"  she  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

"Yes;  but  tell  me  why  is  Steele  so  changed?" 

"Oh,  then  you  have  seen  him  before?" 

"Once." 

Enoch,  affected  by  a  change  in  the  publisher's  appear- 
ance, too  deep  for  immediate  definition,  glanced  repeat- 
edly between  the  portieres.  At  first  he  ascribed  the 
transformation  merely  to  externals.  "  Has  he  not  shaved 
off  his  mustache?" 

She  nodded.     "I  suggested  that.     It  straggled." 

"Yes,  but  the  loose  lips  are  worse  still.  They  should 
not  have  been  revealed." 

"  I  confess  it  was  a  mistake,"  pouted  Dolly;  "but  one 
never  can  tell  in  these  experiments." 

Lloyd  saw  Steele  raise  the  stump  of  a  forefinger  and 
beckon  to  him  gravely. 

"Will  you  excuse  me  a  minute?     I  think — " 

"I  wouldn't,"  she  objected,  lightly.  "Don't  go.  He 
16  241 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

casts  a  gloom  over  one's  spirits.  Besides,  he's  becom- 
ing dissipated  —  an  absintheur.  Imagine  it  —  Matthew 
Steele!  Now  I  do  like  the  bizarre  occasionally,  but 
when  people  go  too  far,  oh,  how  I  long  for  the  country 
and  simple,  clean  natures — fresh  air!" 

Lloyd  turned,  smiling  quizzically.  "  Do  you?  Really, 
you  are  a  remarkable  enigma,  aren't  you?  From  what 
O'Brien  tells  me — " 

"  Oh,  Gol's  all  right,"  she  interposed,  foreseeing  trouble 
ahead;  "but  other  people  say  all  kinds  of  things  that 
aren't  true.  This  is  the  penalty  of  being  known." 

His  gaze  became  narrowly  penetrating.  ' '  Do  you  sup- 
pose any  one  comes  near  guessing  the  real  truth?  By 
that  I  mean  the  whole  truth." 

"S-sh!  I  beg  of  you.     Do  you  think — " 

"I  never  know  nowadays  what  I  think." 

"Absinthe?" 

"A  kind  of  absinthe." 

"A  kind?" 

"  In  results — yes." 

"  Come,  come;  you  have  the  manner  of  a  misanthrope. 
Do  you  affect  it  like  the  rest  ?  I  had  not  thought — but 
here,  let  me  introduce  you  to  some  one  who  will  be  more 
successful  than  I.  See  how  bright-looking  she  is.  She 
had  a  picture,  they  say,  in  last  year's  Salon." 

Her  majesty  led  him  over  to  a  young  girl,  pretty,  but 
utterly  vapid  and  insignificant  contrasted  with  herself. 
She  wished  him  to  appreciate  the  difference  between  a 
poppy  and  a  pink.  Nor  was  he  long  in  unconsciously 
feeling  the  loss  of  a  personality.  But  presently  another 
personality  reasserted  itself.  He  saw  Steele  beckoning 
to  him  again.  This  time  he  went  to  the  dining-room. 

Matthew  was  seated  near  a  sideboard,  to  which  now 
and  then  he  would  reach  up  for  a  small  decanter  con- 
taining an  opaque  and  greenish  liquid,  easily  recogniz- 
able as  the  distillation  of  wormwood. 

242 


The   Queen    of   Bohemia 

The  publisher  held  up  his  glass  before  Enoch's  eyes. 
"It  was  she  who  taught  me  the  trick,  and  the  habit 
seems  to  have  hit  me — hard." 

"Good  God — you!" 

"Yes;  think  of  it  —  a  man  of  business,  cool-headed, 
an  American  through  and  through.  Funny,  is  it  not?" 
But  his  eyes,  their  china-like  surface  now  changed  to  a 
shifting,  almost  blear,  weakness,  seemed  scarcely  in  ac- 
cord with  the  humor  of  the  situation.  "Oh,  of  course 
I'll  throw  it  off  soon,  and  her,  too,  if  the  business  begins 
to  go  wrong,  which  I  have  an  idea  it  will  pretty  shortly. 
But,  Lloyd,  I  want  to  warn  you  against  that  woman. 
You  may  not  have  my  stability.  She'd  lead  you  wrong 
— straight  to  hell.  Once  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  At 
last  she  consented.  Then  she  put  it  off,  and  now  I 
wouldn't  ask  her  again  for  a  million.  You'll  never 
understand  her.  I  don't.  She's  queer.  There  aren't 
many  of  this  kind  over  here.  She's  different.  And 
she's  different  from  most  of  them  anywhere.  The  point 
is,  she's  irreproachable.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  That's 
her  strength.  But  in  other  ways  she's  wrong  somehow 
— yes,  different !  She's  a  woman  of  the  old  world,  as  she 
says  herself.  Lord !  she  declared  one  day  I  was  too  cold- 
blooded, too  commercial,  but  now  she  assures  me  I'm 
transfigured."  He  sipped  his  absinthe,  craning  his  neck 
now  and  then  to  make  sure  the  subject  of  his  colloquy 
was  still  in  the  drawing-room.  "Would  you  call  it 
that?" 

Enoch's  forehead  grew  damp  as  he  looked  down  at  the 
man.  Into  his  eloquent  blue  eyes  there  came  a  strange, 
bewildered  expression,  which  a  keen  observer  might  al- 
most have  interpreted  as  denoting  a  vaguely  troubled 
feeling  of  remorse  and  responsibility.  "When  did  she 
first — "  he  began,  then  paused. 

Steele  smiled.  "Oh,  it  was  in  gratitude  to  me  for 
making  her  famous.  Eh,  what  did  you  say?" 

243 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

"I  don't  know."  Lloyd  lowered  his  voice.  "Look 
here,  Steele,  she  is  not — "  He  hesitated;  unfortunately 
for  one  moment  he  hesitated.  His  life  in  the  past  six 
months  had  perhaps  rendered  possible  that  momentary 
vacillation.  In  earlier  days  the  truth  would  have  been 
spontaneous. 

"  What  are  you  two  whispering  about?  You  look  like 
stage  conspirators."  The  voice  was  Dolly's.  She  stood 
in  the  doorway,  a  hand  on  each  portiere. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  said  Lloyd,  brusquely;  but  her  po- 
sition seemed  to  bar  the  way. 

"Oh  no;  it's  an  unwritten  law  in  my — ahem — salon, 
we  call  it,  that  none  shall  go  without  first  breaking  bread. 
It's  a  kind  of  condition  of  bon  camaraderie,  you  know." 
Turning  to  the  drawing-room  she  added,  impudently: 
"You  all  observe  the  supper  law,  don't  you?" 

Goliath  laughed  aloud.  The  lions  looked  as  hurt  and 
crestfallen  as  the  lambs. 

But  the  supper,  and  particularly  its  nectareal  acces- 
sory, frappd  and  sparkling,  soon  made  up  for  the  offence. 

While  the  various  delicacies  and  the  wine  were  being 
passed  in  the  drawing-room,  by  a  slender  young  Creole 
who  did  service  as  Dolly's  maid,  Matthew  Steele  ap- 
proached his  hostess  gravely.  "Well,"  he  began,  urg- 
ing her  aside,  "you  have  met  him." 

"What  of  that?" 

He  straightened  up  in  an  effort  to  regain  that  cold, 
business-like  masterfulness  which  seemed  so  fast  to  be 
forsaking  him.  "I  ask  you  now,  once  for  all,  to  marry 
me." 

"Marry  you?" 

"Yes.  You  speak  as  if  you  hadn't  already  prom- 
ised." 

"Marry  you,  once  for  all?" 

"Yes." 

"But  it  was  not  you  who  brought  him,  and,  besides, 
244 


The   Queen   of  Bohemia 

I  may  as  well  tell  you  he  will  come  often."  Again  that 
tantalizing  laughter,  familiar  to  his  ears  as  a  popular  air; 
then,  seriously,  "  Moreover,  at  present  you  are  hardly  in- 
viting as  a  husband.  Instead  of  helping  me  up  in  life, 
you  would  drag  me  down." 

Steele's  face  went  ugly  with  anger.  "You  say  that!" 
he  ejaculated — "  you  who  are  the  cause  of  it!  What  are 
you?  A  woman?  No ;  I  believe  you  are  a  she — "  He 
broke  off,  laughing. 

Her  lip  curled ;  her  eyes  were  slits ;  but  she  managed  to 
control  her  temper.  "And  what  are  you? "  she  asked, 
sarcastically.  "When  you're  a  man  again  you  can  come 
and  remind  me  of  my  promise."  Whereupon,  without 
another  word,  Dolly  slipped  out  to  seek  the  idol  of  her 
whim. 

On  the  way  she  met  Goliath,  and  spoke  to  him  aside. 
"I  want  to  thank  you  for  mentioning  the  Washington 
Hotel  to  Mr.  Lloyd.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  business, 
you  know.  The  fact  is,  I  have  a  financial  interest 
in  it.  How  good  it  was  of  you  to  bring  him  this 
evening!" 

O'Brien  smiled  good-naturedly,  and,  when  she  left  him, 
gravitated  towards  the  basis  of  supply.  He  was  far  too 
lax,  too  sprawling  of  character,  to  consider  the  matter 
at  all. 

Dolly  joined  Enoch.  "Come  away  from  them — here. 
I  must  speak  to  you. ' '  She  parted  a  Japanese  hanging  of 
beaded  cane-work  that  screened  a  small  anteroom  when 
the  door  stood  open.  As  Enoch  entered  he  saw,  to  his 
surprise,  a  carved  prie-dieu,  antique  and  foreign,  over 
which  hung  a  silver  crucifix.  The  sight  shocked  him. 
"Oh,"  said  Dolly,  in  a  hushed  voice,  "this  is  the  only 
place  available.  I  call  it  my  sanctuary.  You  see,  I  am 
by  no  means  a  heathen.  But  don't  let's  even  mention 
religion,  with  those  people  chattering  out  there."  She 
motioned  to  an  arm-chair  opposite  a  tile-framed  fire- 

245 


The   Triumph   of  Life 

place,  in  which  a  bed  of  soft  coals  was  glowing,  and 
seated  herself  on  a  divan  against  the  wall. 

Lloyd  sat  down  with  an  air  of  calm  resource.  As  he 
did  so,  Felice,  the  maid,  entered,  bearing  a  tray  with 
supper  and  a  bottle  of  champagne.  This  she  was  about 
to  deposit  on  the  prie-dieu,  when  Dolly  indignantly  stop- 
ped her.  "  Felice,  not  there!  Put  it  on  the  table.  Have 
you  no  reverence  in  your  nature?" 

When  the  maid  had  dejectedly  retired,  Enoch  sat  for- 
ward. "Well?"  he  began. 

Dolly  glanced  abstractedly  through  the  cane  hanging 
at  the  drawing-room.  "Sometimes  I  hate  them  all ;  they 
stifle  me.  What  has  Mr.  Steele  been  saying  to  you?" 

"Nothing  very  pleasant." 

"Do  you  mean  about  me?" 

"Yes,  about  you." 

She  appeared  to  shiver — whether  from  a  fear  real  or 
assumed  Enoch  could  not  determine.  "I  don't  know 
what  he  will  do  next.  He  grows  almost  creepy.  The 
fact  is" — she  lowered  her  lashes — "he  warns  people 
against  me  from  sheer  jealousy — a  most  extraordinary 
wile." 

"Then  why  do  you  receive  him  here  and  give  him 
absinthe?" 

Her  eyes  snapped.  Something  disagreeable  stole  into 
their  depths,  something  dangerous.  "Your  tone  is  un- 
pardonable," she  flashed,  hotly;  "but  perhaps  you,  also, 
have  been  drinking.  Do  you  know  why  I  let  him  have 
it  here?  It's  simply  because  I  can  restrict  him  with  it." 
Her  voice  fell  to  a  deeper  note,  her  expression  suggest- 
ing a  truly  devotional  use  of  the  prie-dieu.  "Merciful 
Heaven,  how  I've  tried  to  save  that  man!"  Then, 
quickly,  "It  may  be  selfish,  I  know.  You  see,  Mr. 
Steele  is  my  publisher." 

"Yours?" 

"Well  ours,  if  you  prefer  it."  She  leaned  forward 

246 


The   Queen   of   Bohemia 

over  the  table.  "What's  the  use  of  innuendoes?  I 
know  you  are  pot-boiling  under  the  name  of  Dolly  Cohen, 
and  you  know  it,  though  why  on  earth  you  should  have 
chosen  such  a  name  I  can't  imagine.  Why  did  you?" 

He  started  back.  "I — Dolly  Cohen?  Are  you  mad? 
Is  this  another  piece  of  nonsense?" 

She  clapped  her  hands.  "Excellent!  Splendid!  You 
should  go  on  the  stage.  Oh,  look  here,  what's  the  use 
of  denying  it?"  She  stretched  still  farther  forward  on 
one  elbow,  and  reaching  out  an  arm  incisively  tapped 
the  table  close  to  him  with  a  delicate  forefinger.  "You 
may  as  well  own  up.  It  will  be  better  all  around.  Per- 
haps you  consider  me  very  daring.  So  I  am.  Think  of 
it !  This  is  the  position :  You  choose  a  pseudonym  under 
which  to  write  certain  money-making  trash  that  you 
would  rather  die  than  openly  acknowledge.  Suddenly, 
by  a  stroke  of  good-fortune,  I  learn  the  truth — no  mat- 
ter how.  That's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  fact  re- 
mains. Well,  I  necJl  the  money;  I  crave  pos:*'on;  I  am 
desperate!  So  what  do  I  do?  I  adopt  your  pen-name, 
as  though  it  were  my  own  by  birth.  I  steal  your  royal- 
ties; I  strut  in  borrowed  plumes.  And  you,  of  course, 
must  let  it  go  at  that.  How  can  you  expose  me  with- 
out also  betraying  your  own  degradation?  Oh,  la-la-la, 
was  ever  such  a  thing  before?  I  am,  you  might  say, 
your  second  self.  Dramatic,  isn't  it?  Yes,  you  have 
created  me,  and  it's  not  such  a  poor  piece  of  work,  after 
all.  But  I  do  wish  you  had  chosen  a  prettier  name. 
This  is  detestable.  Dolly  Cohen — pah!  My  true  name 
is  Celeste  Mor —  No,  no  ;  never  mind.  Celeste  is 
enough;  the  second  I've  forgotten.  Anyway,  they're 
both  done  with  now.  Dolly  Cohen — ugh ! ' '  She  frowned 
at  the  champagne  bottle. 

Meanwhile  Lloyd  was  laughing  quietly.  "One  might 
call  this  talk  a  meaningless  rigmarole,  comprehensible 
only  to  walruses  and  snarks." 

247 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

She  nodded,  with  keen  acumen.  "Yes,  yes;  one 
might,  but  you  don't!  You  understand  well  enough. 
That's  positive.  There  can  be  no  mistake.  Can  there? 
Is  it  possible  I  am  wrong?"  For  an  instant  she  bent  her 
gaze  on  his  face  sharply,  as  if  determined  to  read  him 
through  and  through;  then,  of  a  sudden,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  arms  outstretched  on  the  table,  and  when  at 
last  she  looked  up  it  was  to  dash  away  a  tear.  "Well, 
well;  I'll  say  no  more  about  it.  Do  as  you  will;  play 
Lord  High  Executioner  if  you  like;  deprive  me  of  my 
fame ;  send  me  back  to  the  state  of  an  impecunious  non- 
entity. That's  what  I  was — and  very  desperate.  Oh, 
terribly!  So  I  took  big  chances.  None  could  have  been 
greater.  Well  and  good;  the  game  has  been  exciting, 
and  risk  is  the  spice  of  life.  I  throw  down  my  hand. 
You've  won.  That's  the  end  of  it."  She  filled  two 
glasses  recklessly.  "Here,  drink  —  drink  deep  to  the 
game — and  your  victory — and  my  nerve.  At  least  you 
will  acknowledge  I  have  nerve." 

Enoch  said  nothing.  At  the  last  she  had  expressed  his 
thoughts.  What  daring  she  had!  What  amazing  cour- 
age !  Her  pose  and  the  poise  of  her  head  and  the  flash 
of  her  eyes  told  him  so,  even  if  nothing  else  proclaimed 
it.  Her  pluck  corresponded  in  a  way  to  that  headlong 
disregard  for  consequences  which  had  until  lately  ani- 
mated his  life.  And  because  at  present  he  had  cause  to 
be  timid,  this  dash  of  bravery  appealed  to  him  the  more. 
Nothing  is  so  fascinating  to  the  newly  cautious  as  the 
audacity  they  have  lost. 

Dolly  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Drink!"  She  held  the 
glass  high  into  the  light.  "Champagne!"  she  cried. 
"What  is  it?  What  is  a  glass  of  champagne?"  She 
paused  as  if  for  an  adequate  definition.  The  wine  trem- 
bled at  the  brim.  "Ah,"  she  cried,  at  last,  "I  know!" 
Then,  as  though  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  eloquence, 
"A  glass  of  champagne  is  a  liquescent  topaz — the  only 

248 


The   Queen    o£   Bohemia 

jewel  that  we  drink.  Listen!  It  whispers  to  me.  What 
does  it  say?"  She  lowered  the  glass  and  turned  an  ear 
to  it.  "Hark!  It  whispers,  'I  am  the  spirit  of  Paris, 
the  pseudo-soul.  I  am  the  ghost  of  the  sunshine  that 
dies  on  the  fields  at  dusk.'"  She  sank  to  her  seat  and 
held  the  glass  out,  waiting  to  touch  his  own.  "Poetic, 
am  I  not?"  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  as 
well  be  descended  from  Jean  Jacques  himself  as  from  his 
ignominious  protege — from  Jean  Jacques,  by  the  left 
hand.  "  Do  you  know  I  am  descended — really,  I'm  not 
joking  —  from  the  great  Rousseau  —  not  according  to 
convention,  it's  true,  but  informally,  you  know.  Yes, 
there  seems  excellent  reason  for  believing  the  story. 
Now,  surely,  you'll  drink  to  me.  I  am  the  spirit  of 
Paris."  Her  lashes  fluttered. 

His  hand  moved  forward  to  the  stem  of  his  glass. 

She  gave  him  the  subtlest  gaze  of  her  eyes.  Deep 
down  in  their  shadows  glimmered  a  vaguely  disturb- 
ing light — the  light  of  invitation.  They  were  far  from 
smiling;  nevertheless,  the  spark  seemed  to  promise  a 
smile,  as  a  smile  may  promise  a  laugh.  The  look  was 
luminous,  intimate,  veiled,  sympathetic,  as  if  it  would 
say,  "We  have  something  in  accord,  you  and  I.  We 
could  understand  each  other."  And  the  look  was  flat- 
tering. "I  could  appreciate  you,"  it  seemed  to  say. 
And  tender,  "I  could  love  you."  And  passionate, 
"Youth,  come  to  me;  bring  flame  to  flame!"  And  yet 
it  was  open,  free,  humorous,  "We  could  laugh  together, 
you  and  I."  All  this  in  a  single  glance,  a  single  instant. 

Lloyd  started  to  rise  hastily. 

"No,"  she  cried,  in  dismay,  stretching  out  a  hand  to 
detain  him.  "There!  That  is  the  same  instinct.  Why 
do  you  turn  ?  Why  did  you  turn  away  that  evening,  two 
years  ago?  I  must  know.  Tell  me." 

"When  I  look  into  your  eyes,"  he  replied,  sinking  back, 
"I  am  like  a  child  afraid  of  the  dark." 

249 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

Her  pupils  dilated,  sparkling.  "Bravo,  bravissimo! 
Well  spoken!  Do  what  you  will  now.  Nothing  mat- 
ters." She  urged  him  with  a  trembling  glass.  "  Here's 
to  the  game." 

"Yes,  the  game,"  he  whispered. 

Reaching  forward  she  stroked  his  hand.  "What  a 
child  you  are!  And  I  was  once — God  save  me!" 

The  chivalry  leaped  up  in  him.  "Don't!"  he  said; 
"don't!  What's  wrong?" 

She  fell  to  her  knees  beside  him.  "  I  am  not  worthy," 
she  half  sobbed,  "even  to  touch  your  ringers." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  between  the  portieres, 
"that's  pretty!" 

Dolly  sprang  back.  Lloyd  rose  to  his  feet.  Steele 
stood  in  the  doorway.  Swaying  unsteadily,  he  held  out 
a  hand  to  Enoch.  "  'Night,  Mr.  Angel;  "night." 

Lloyd  shook  the  hand  and  recoiled.  He  remembered 
having  grasped  it -once  before.  Then  it  had  been  cold, 
like  marble;  now  it  was  cold,  like  a  damp,  flexible  sub- 
stance— inexpressibly  unpleasant.  And  the  impression 
created  by  the  tone  with  which  he  said  "Angel"  was 
even  worse. 

Steele  regarded  Enoch  with  a  smile  annoyingly  fa- 
miliar. "Well,  my  Lor'  Shanshellor,  she  is  wonderful, 
isn't  she — -"wonderful  queen?  Do  you  know  what  her 
majesty  calls  me  now?"  Dolly  laughed  nervously. 
"She  calls  me  the  March  Hare."  At  this  he  smiled  as  if 
mocking  himself,  and,  with  a  bow,  went  off  mun  '  'ing  his 
sobriquet. 

Lloyd,  still  feeling  the  touch  of  the  gelatinous  hand  in 
his,  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  But  gradually  the 
damp  contact  seemed  to  go  deeper.  It  brought  a  chill, 
almost  physical,  through  the  veins  from  palm  to  heart. 
Sweeping  back  the  hair  from  his  temple,  he  stood 
straighter  than  before.  "I  am  going." 

Dolly  rose  without  demur,  and  lightly  offered  him  her 
250 


The   Queen   of   Bohemia 

hand.  "Well,  after  all,  I  was  not  repellent  to  you  that 
evening." 

His  answer  came  frankly  unsparing.  "Yes,  I  think 
you  were — are!" 

"I — repellent!"  Her  eyes  narrowed,  then  she  laugh- 
ed. "Oh,  well,  what  do  I  care?  It  doesn't  matter — if 
only  you  don't — you  don't — " 

"What?" 

"  Betray  me." 

He  faced  her  squarely.  "That  is  exactly  what  I  in- 
tend to  do." 

"You  do  —  you  intend  — "  Her  eyes  threatened 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  declared,  tersely.  "Now  I  know  you  are 
defrauding  some  one.  Even  your  name's  a  sham." 

"Ah!  And  how  about  yours?"  Her  manner  was  no 
longer  winning,  no  longer  brave.  Her  voice  had  a 
vituperative  harshness.  "Some  one,  indeed!  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  who  that  some  one  is?  Ta  bouche, 
bebe!  Tu  es  sot!"  The  nails  of  her  fingers  were  biting 
into  her  palms.  The  girl  of  the  quais  and  alleys,  the 
fiery  grisette  of  the  Quarter,  never  wholly  to  be  annihi- 
lated, rose  to  the  surface  with  vulgar  invective  and  sur- 
prised him  into  fear. 

Nevertheless,  he  kept  a  bold  front.  "  It  can  be  done," 
he  reiterated,  firmly. 

"How?     Pray  tell  me  how?" 

"Well,  suppose  I  know  the  person  who  has  really  writ- 
ten these  novels?  Suppose  I  prevail  upon  her  to  stop 
writing  them?  Since  you  stole  the  name  no  book  by 
Dolly  Cohen  has  appeared.  Now  suppose,  merely  for 
argument's  sake,  the  manuscript  of  another  is  just  com- 
pleted. Steele,  we'll  say,  expects  it.  The  manuscript 
doesn't  come.  Days  go  by.  He  demands  from  you — 
you,  of  course — another  novel.  You  can't  comply.  He 
presses.  You  put  him  off.  He  wonders;  he  suspects; 

251 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

he  grasps  the  truth.  You  are  ruined!  Isn't  it  so? 
What  do  you  answer  to  this?" 

Dolly  snapped  her  fingers.  "That's  what  I  answer. 
Pah!  Do  you  know  what  it  means  when  I  snap  my 
fingers?  Oh,  my  poor  boy,  it  means  a  great  deal.  In 
this  instance  it  signifies  that  you  are  utterly  powerless  in 
the  matter,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  fool  me 
with  talk  of  her,  because  I  know  positively  that  Enoch 
Lloyd  is  Dolly  Cohen,  and  I  can  prove  it  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt.  My  misgivings  a  moment  ago  were 
only  a  pretence.  It  is  so  nice  to  cry  now  and  then  when 
there's  nothing  to  cry  for;  so  pretty  if  you  dash  the  tears 
from  your  eyes."  She  shrugged  indifferently.  "You 
see,  I'm  showing  you  my  true  self.  It's  better.  I'm 
not  afraid  of  you  one  little  bit.  You'll  come  again,  of 
course!  Why  don't  you  come  on  Monday?  That's  my 
birthday.  I'm  to  have  a  party,  like  a  girl  of  ten.  Oh 
yes,  you'll  come.  I'm  not  afraid  of  you  in  the  very 
least.  That's  what  it  means  when  I  snap  my  fingers.  It 
means  I  am  laughing  in  my  sleeve."  She  stroked  her 
velvet-clad  arms  fondlingly.  "Well,  how  about  it?" 

"Good-night,"  said  Lloyd,  in  a  hard  voice,  and  turned 
on  his  heel  slowly.  Through  the  drawing-room  he  walk- 
ed away  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  as  if  without  feeling  the 
inquisitive  eyes  that  watched  his  exit. 

Dolly  followed  to  the  hall.  "Good-night,  my  Lord 
High  Executioner,"  she  waved,  gayly,  before  her  entire 
court.  "  Good-night,  my  Lord  No-name.  Come  again." 


VI 
Afterthoughts 

AS  Lloyd  went  out  into  the  night  he  threw  back  his 
J~\  head  to  inhale  deep  the  cold,  invigorating  air.  Snow 
had  been  falling  since  noon.  About  each  white  globe 
under  which  he  passed  a  miniature  Milky  Way  of  flakes, 
soft  as  thistle-down,  dispersed  the  arc  rays  into  a  myriad 
chips  of  light.  On  the  pavement  the  long  white  reaches, 
like  cotton-batting,  muffled  sounds.  Lloyd  noticed  that 
his  steps  were  inaudible,  even  to  himself.  The  realiza- 
tion appeared  to  have  an  influence  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  fact.  He  would  have  preferred  to  hear  his  foot- 
falls. Nerves  keyed  high  seem  to  need  vibration.  He 
listened  now  with  unprecedented  eagerness  to  the  occa- 
sional noises  of  night-time  —  the  rumble  of  cabs,  the 
heavy  passing  of  an  automobile,  the  song  of  a  tipsy 
collegian,  the  clatter  of  an  elevated  train,  and  next  its 
shriek  as  brakes  were  put  on  and  wheels  squeaked  along 
the  rail  at  a  station  overhead.  All  these  his  ears  caught 
at  with  relief,  but  often  came  intervals  of  silence,  save 
for  the  bruit  of  his  own  mind. 

He  hurried  on,  and  his  brain,  when  actual  noises  were 
lacking  to  distract  it,  seemed  not  only  to  give  forth  sound, 
but  shape  as  well.  One  after  another  intangible  forms, 
dissolving,  commingling,  and  incoherent  as  the  clamor, 
obscured  his  mental  vision,  rendering  the  prospect  of  life 
so  chaotic  that  at  last  it  bred  a  hopeless,  helpless  fatigue, 
similar  to  that  which  follows  nightmare. 

Now  and  again  the  passing  of  an  electric-car,  ablaze 

253 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

with  light,  dispelled  for  a  moment  the  effect  of  lifeless- 
ness. 

He  hurried  on,  the  usual  swing  of  his  stride  broken  by 
uneasy  haste.  His  gait  betrayed  the  nervous  celerity  of 
a  fugitive  from  thoughts.  Leaving  Broadway,  he  turned 
into  Fifth  Avenue  at  the  junction  of  the  two  thorough- 
fares, and  further  quickened  his  pace.  Here  not  even  a 
car  relieved  the  dreariness  of  his  way. 

He  hurried  on.  Finally  the  great  arch  loomed  big 
before  him,  white  as  though  built  of  snow.  He  hastened 
under  it.  The  square  was  a  white  waste.  Its  trees,  lank 
and  stark,  waved  skeleton  arms  at  the  pale  arc  moon. 
Lloyd  was  alone  in  the  open.  He  struck  across  the 
waste.  His  track  was  deep  and  direct.  It  ended  at  the 
Washington  Hotel. 

Mounting  speedily  to  his  room,  he  lighted  the  gas  and 
sighed  with  a  sense  of  refuge,  but  even  here  rest  was  lack- 
ing. He  found  two  letters  awaiting  him.  The  first  was 
from  Cuthbert  Morton. 

"DEAR  ANGEL, — " 

Lloyd  smiled  at  the  name,  the  pitiful  smile  of  irony 
embittering  the  eyes  of  youth. 

"DEAR  ANGEL, — At  the  Millennium  Club  last  night  ex- 
tracts from  your  book,  The  Greatest  Good,  were  read  aloud. 
They  met  with  deep  approval.  This  recognition  by  men 
who  have  the  best  ideals  of  literature  and  life  at  heart  is 
worth  having.  Mr.  Lee  wants  to  propose  you  for  member- 
ship. If  you  agree,  I  will  second  you.  Yours, 

"C.  M." 

Lloyd  stared  blankly  at  the  damp-stained  wall,  much 
as  an  impatient  traveller  stares  at  a  cross-road  that  sud- 
denly complicates  his  course.  Dropping  the  note,  he 
frowned.  Cuthbert  was  always  heaping  coals  of  fire  on 
his  head.  Never  had  there  been  a  quarrel  but  what 

354 


Afterthoughts 

Cuthbert  had  patronized  him  into  peace.     And  yet, 
Cutty  somehow  meant  well. 

He  took  up  the  second  letter,  and,  holding  it  under  the 
gas-jet,  read  intently: 

"DEAR  MR.  LLOYD, — After  trying  for  six  months,  I  have 
at  last  discovered  your  address  through  Mr.  Morton.  We 
are  in  town  for  the  winter  in  our  home.  I  must  see  you. 
Come  at  once.  MARION  LEE." 

Unfortunately  he  dwelt  on  the  last  sentence.  Its  im- 
perious tone  rankled.  His  mood  was  pettily  on  the  look- 
out for  annoyances.  With  an  air  of  defiance  he  tore  the 
letter  into  scraps  and  tossed  it  aside. 

In  bewilderment  he  went  to  his  window,  and,  raising 
the  sash,  looked  out  as  if  the  confines  of  his  room  had  be- 
come unbearable. 

The  bells  of  Grace  Church,  within  range  of  his  hearing, 
had  already  chimed  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  square  was  no  longer  empty.  Dim  in  one  of  the 
bordering  streets  two  or  three  figures  bent  in  toil  were 
busily  clearing  a  driveway.  Enoch  envied  the  men  their 
unreasoning  labor.  To  them  the  best  things  in  life  were 
a  job  and  the  food  it  brought;  the  worst  were  the  lack  of 
a  job  and  an  empty  stomach.  At  least  they  knew  what 
they  wanted,  and  were  fairly  content  with  what  they 
got.  How  much  simpler  to  call  existence  a  job  than  an 
infinite  enigma.  They  were  blessed  by  the  blindness  of 
drudgery. 

As  he  stood  there  a  wagon  laden  with  newspapers, 
horse  at  a  gallop,  rattled  into  the  light  and  off  westward, 
probably  to  the  North  River  ferries,  its  course  one  of  the 
numberless  radii  diverging  from  the  centre  of  news — the 
light  of  events — to  the  outermost  circle  of  readers.  The 
indomitable  energy  and  bigness  of  modern  enterprise 
seemed  to  shame  his  life. 

Presently  another  vehicle  appeared  while  Enoch  watch- 
255 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

ed.  An  ambulance,  evidently  returning  to  hospital  from 
the  scene  of  an  accident,  passed  slowly  beneath  him. 
The  street  light  revealed  a  blanketed  figure's  lower  ex- 
tremities, whether  of  a  person  dead  or  alive  it  was  im- 
possible to  tell.  Lloyd  glanced  at  the  hospital  interne 
on  the  foot-board.  His  lot,  too,  was  enviable.  What 
better  than  to  be  driven  about  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, with  duty  defined,  helping  people,  thinking  little 
of  the  morrow,  so  easily,  so  simply  doing  good?  Even 
in  closing  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man  there  is  duty — real 
life!  Enoch  failed  to  consider  the  years  of  the  young 
doctor's  preparation,  the  wearing  study,  the  wonderful 
intricacies  of  anatomy  he  had  been  obliged  to  master, 
and  the  revolting  details  of  pathology  before  being  al- 
lowed even  to  wrap  a  bandage  on  a  drunkard's  wound. 

Long  after  the  ambulance  had  passed  from  view 
Enoch  stood  there.  The  snow  was  no  longer  falling. 
The  number  of  figures  had  increased.  Near  the  end  of 
the  block  a  policeman  was  trying  the  doors  to  make  cer- 
tain they  were  locked.  Here,  too,  was  service — guardian- 
ship against  evil,  a  definite  post  to  fill.  Anything  seem- 
ed preferable  to  negation,  to  all  this  complex  wondering, 
this  ceaseless,  harassing  question,  "Is  it  worth  while?" 
He  began  to  long  for  the  genuine,  healthy  fatigue  of  real 
toil  ...  or  else  a  forgetful  passivity.  .  .  . 

As  the  policeman  advanced,  a  female  figure,  tall  and 
meagre,  hovering  near  another  corner,  crouched  into 
the  shadows  of  an  areaway  and  waited  while  he  passed. 
Assured  of  safety,  the  outcast  then  emerged  to  continue 
her  own  wearisome  beat.  Under  Lloyd's  window  she 
happened  to  pause  with  her  back  to  the  hotel,  and  hesi- 
tatingly regarded  one  of  the  snow-covered  benches  in  the 
square,  as  if  wavering  between  the  coldness  of  its  com- 
fort and  the  rest  it  would  afford.  In  her  hat  a  couple  of 
bedraggled  black  feathers  drooped  over  her  brow.  Her 
skirt  trailed  in  the  snow.  Presently  the  thought  of  the 

256 


Afterthoughts 

rest  prevailed.  She  crossed  and  seated  herself.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  feathers  in  her  hat  were  bobbing  forward.  Evi- 
dently overcome  with  exhaustion,  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

Enoch  felt  as  though  his  nerves  tightened.  She  was 
affording  him  a  glimpse  at  the  Tragic  Side. 

But  soon  along  came  a  reeling  workman,  and  the  wom- 
an awoke.  In  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  walking  away, 
and  as  they  went  she  suddenly  laughed  aloud.  Enoch 
saw  the  flamboyant,  hearselike  plumes  in  her  hat  begin 
to  shake  wildly.  Harsh,  riotous,  discordant,  her  laughter 
rang  out  with  a  peal  so  ribald  that  in  it  all  the  evil  of  the 
world  seemed  to  be  mocking  all  the  good.  The  laugh 
was  the  jeer  of  remorseless  vice. 

Lloyd  closed  the  window.  For  a  moment,  while  the 
actual  sound  of  that  laughter  filled  his  ears,  he  stared 
down  dazedly  at  the  receding  figures,  and  gradually, 
when  the  sound  set  fire  to  imagination,  his  thoughts  be- 
gan, in  a  confused  way,  to  people  the  earth  with  mocking 
laughers  like  this  woman,  and,  ruling  over  them  all,  a 
superhuman  mocker,  leading  the  chorus  of  their  mirth. 
Then  suddenly  he  straightened  up,  aggressive.  In- 
stinctively, for  one  instant,  he  had  become  a  champion 
of  virtue.  But  soon  the  psychical  echoes  of  that 
laughter  dissolved  his  zeal.  Perhaps  some  note  within 
him  was  out  of  tune  and  could  only  vibrate  falsely. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  he  sank  into  a  chair  and  smiled. 
Something  in  the  tone  of  the  outcast's  merriment  sug- 
gested strangely  the  laughter  of  another  woman.  Yet 
what  a  contrast  between  the  two!  This  was  harsh,  that 
had  been  melodious;  this  was  repellent,  that  had  been 
seductive;  this  was  evil,  that —  He  paused.  Did  the 
antithesis  end  here?  How  desperately  difficult  to  rec- 
ognize the  discords  that  seem  to  perfect  a  harmony! 
How  different  could  one  but  play  on  human  natures, 
striking  their  key-notes,  then  listening  with  an  ear  at- 
tuned! 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

Suddenly  the  bells  of  Grace  Church  chimed  the  last  of 
the  small  hours — four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Turning  bewilderedly,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed, 
dressed  as  he  was,  and,  with  the  abandonment  of  a  boy 
to  some  hidden  trouble,  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow. 

The  woman  who  had  been  suggested  by  the  harpy's 
laugh  showed  no  such  childlike  emotion;  and  yet,  when 
the  last  of  the  lions  and  lambs  had  departed,  it  soon  be- 
came evident  that  their  divinity  was  in  no  tranquil  frame 
of  mind. 

"  Is  ma'm'selle  not  going  to  bed?"  Felice  stood  wait- 
ing to  perform  the  delicate  operation  of  extricating  her 
mistress  from  the  white  velvet  gown. 

"Unhook  me." 

"Ma'm'selle  is  vexed.  Is  it  because  I  put  the  cham- 
pagne on  the  prie-dieu?" 

"Pah!" 

"Ma'm'selle  is  not  herself." 

"No,  she  is  some  one  else.     That's  the  trouble." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"Of  course  you  don't.     You're  not  meant  to." 

"That  is  true — yes.  But  if  ma'm'selle  does  not  think 
me  insolent,  I  suspect — " 

"Well,  what?     Now,  what?" 

"I  suspect  she  has  been  annoyed  by  the  young  gen- 
tleman with  the  clear  blue  eyes.  Is  he  not  different 
from  the  rest?" 

"  Foh!  Down  deep  they  are  all  the  same.  The  color 
of  the  eyes  doesn't  matter  much.  Behind  them  one 
always  finds  the  inveterate  masculine.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means?" 

Felice  shook  her  head  and  sighed  with  sincere  admira- 
tion. "You  read  the  world  like  a  book,  ma'm'selle,  but 
/  know  so  very  little." 

"It  means,"  pursued  Dolly,  "a  born  fool.  But  of 
258 


Afterthoughts 

course  you  don't  know.  That's  why  I  engaged  you. 
One  can  trust  a  know-nothing.  Besides,"  she  added,  as- 
suming an  air  of  preciosity,  "ignorance  of  your  kind, 
Felice,  is  indeed  an  inestimable  possession.  Keep  your 
heart  simple  and  you  may  live  with  me  always." 

Felice  struggled  with  the  last  hook.  "  Oh,  thank  you, 
ma'm'selle." 

"  But  remember,"  pursued  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  who 
derived  a  certain  pleasure  from  the  ingenuousness  of  her 
lady-in-waiting,  "you  have  a  Southern  nature,  so  keep  in 
mind  one  thing.  This  has  always  been  my  father's  ad- 
vice to  me,  and  he  is  very  shrewd,  so  shrewd  that  he  can 
laugh  at  life.  '  Be  unobtainable,'  he  told  me  when  I  was 
a  child;  'always  be  unobtainable.  Above  everything, 
let  others  do  the  loving.'"  Dolly  laughed  flippantly. 
"To  this  rule  I've  added  one  exception."  She  turned 
and  surveyed  her  figure  in  the  cheval-glass.  "It  gives 
me  splendid  leeway.  'Love  yourself.'  This  is  a  sure 
safeguard  against  dangerous  entanglements.  Come,  be 
quick!"  She  threw  off  her  bodice.  "There!  Ah,  it's 
good  to  be  free  of  that  prison."  The  velvet  skirt  fell 
softly  to  the  floor.  "  Unlace  me."  When  Felice  had  fin- 
ished the  task  her  mistress  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 
"This  pair  doesn't  fit,  somehow.  You  may  wear  them. 
Come,  weigh  me." 

She  followed  her  maid  to  the  bath-room,  and,  accord- 
ing to  her  nightly  custom,  stood  on  a  pair  of  white-and-. 
gold  scales,  to  make  sure  there  was  no  beginning  of  gross- 
ness. 

"Half  a  pound  less,"  said  Felice. 

"Naturally,"  muttered  Dolly.  "I've  been  through 
so  much."  For  once  the  question  of  avoirdupois  was 
soon  forgotten.  Dolly  returned  to  her  dressing-table. 

"Ma'm'selle,  the  milk  is  in  the  bath-tub." 

"I'm  not  going  to  bathe  to-night." 

"  Not—" 

259 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

"  No.  Be  quiet.  Keep  it  over.  Set  it."  She  smiled 
whimsically.  "Then  to-morrow  I  can  take  a  bath  in 
cream." 

Felice  smiled  too.  Her  mistress  had  so  unexpected 
a  way  of  saying  things.  "Is  ma'm'selle  ready  to  have 
her  hair  combed?" 

"  Yes,  but  look  out  for  tangles.  I  believe  I  could  mur- 
der you  to-night  for  the  theft  of  a  single  hair." 

Felice  fell  tremblingly  to  work. 

"Wait!     Stop!" 

"But,  ma'm'selle,  I  was  doing  it  so  gently." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that.  Can  I  be  wrong?  Can  I  be  wrong?" 
Jumping  up,  she  hurried  to  the  bureau,  from  a  drawer 
of  which  she  took  out  an  envelope  containing  a  minute 
scrap  of  paper.  At  the  scrap  she  gazed  for  the  hun- 
dredth time.  "  Can  I  be  wrong  ?  Why  should  he  choose 
such — "  She  paused  and  bit  her  lip  and  fingered  her 
hair  and  frowned  at  the  name  before  her.  Then,  on  a 
sudden,  she  uttered  a  little  cry.  Her  eyes  danced,  and 
she  burst  out  laughing  uncontrollably. 

Felice  quaked.  Never  had  she  heard  quite  so  start- 
ling a  laugh  before.  It  was  enough  to  jangle  on  any 
one's  nerves  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Harsh, 
riotous,  discordant,  it  rang  out  with  a  peal  so  ribald  that 
in  it  all  the  evil  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  mocking  all 
the  good. 

Dolly,  slipping  back  the  scrap,  returned  to  her  dress- 
ing-table. "  It's  all  right,  Felice.  It's  all  right  now.  I 
have  it  at  last — and  him." 

"But,  ma'm'selle,"  whispered  her  know-nothing,  half 
between  terror  and  bewilderment,  "  I  don't  understand." 

"No  matter,  no  matter.  Comb  my  hair;  put  me  to 
bed.  I  want  to  think  it  over  in  peace  and  comfort." 

Dolly  lay  awake  until  finally  the  first  hint  of  day, 
which,  in  spite  of  close-drawn  blinds,  would  persist,  now 

260 


Afterthoughts 

and  then,  in  finding  a  crevice  ef  entrance,  stole  in  to  pro- 
test against  her  preference  for  lamp-light. 

Annoyed,  she  pulled  up  the  sheets,  but  now  her  sen- 
sitive conscience  reminded  her  of  neglected  prayers. 
Stepping  into  her  slippers  she  glided  to  the  anteroom, 
screened  by  the  Japanese  hanging  of  beaded  cane-work. 
Under  a  low,  depending  lamp  she  knelt  at  the  prie-dieu 
and  prettily  offered  thanksgiving.  Then,  slipping  back 
through  the  drawing-room,  she  shut  out  the  impudent 
daylight — so  dear  to  the  world,  so  detestable  to  custo- 
dians of  night — and  was  soon  snuggled  in  the  fair  linen, 
sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  child. 


VII 
The  Hour  of  Stephen    Lee 

"/"^OME  at  once. — MARION  LEE." 

V >  In  his  sleep  the  words  were  like  a  call,  clear  and 

deep,  vital  and  commanding.  The  summons  seemed  to 
descend  from  somewhere  above  him,  in  the  old,  familiar, 
undying  voice,  ever  echoing  as  though  from  her  spirit — 
the  voice  of  the  soul  of  a  violoncello,  vibrantly  memorial 
in  tone.  When  he  awoke  they  flared  across  his  mental 
vision  as  though  engrailed  in  air  by  some  invisible  finger. 
As  the  day  passed  he  found  it  impossible  to  elude  them. 
They  held  his  gaze  abstracted.  Again  and  again  his 
brain  repeated  her  name  in  low,  mechanical  sing-song, 
till  at  last  the  far  less  mellow  accents  of  his  pride  were 
drowned  in  the  chant  of  memory. 

No  longer  pettily  cavilling,  he  obeyed. 

The  winter  home  of  the  Lees,  in  Fifth  Avenue,  not  far 
from  the  marble  arch,  stood  in  a  row  of  once-fashionable 
brownstone  houses,  whose  massive,  unornate  solidity  still 
proclaims  the  dignified  reserve  of  a  bygone  generation. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  sun's  rays,  sloping 
lower  and  lower  from  the  west,  crossed  the  avenue  at 
side  streets.  Between  them  the  houses,  casting  blunt 
shadows,  reared  a  barrier  against  the  gloaming.  Mile 
on  mile  stretched  the  fixed  roof-line,  a  close,  man-made 
horizon,  denying  the  eye  its  right  to  the  distances  of 
twilight. 

Lloyd,  pausing  on  the  first  step,  surveyed  the  dwelling. 
How  unlike  the  House  of  Dreams!  How  sternly  actual! 

262 


The   Hour   of   Stephen   Lee 

Could  the  presence  even  of  Marion  invest  this  house  with 
enchantment?  Here  she  was  exiled  from  nature.  Be- 
fore, when  he  had  seen  her,  how  near  to  it  she  had  seem- 
ed. Vivid  recollections  filled  his  mind.  Scene  after 
scene  flashed  back  to  him.  There  she  stood  on  the  shore, 
instinct  with  vitality;  there  again,  near  the  majestic  col- 
umn, a  goddess  unnamable,  descending  to  meet  him  at 
the  steps  of  her  temple;  and  there,  once  more,  in  his  boat 
she  lay  asleep,  passionate-haired,  silver-faced,  unknow- 
able. If  only  she  had  wakened  to  him  then  and  yielded 
even  a  little,  how  different  it  would  all  have  been!  If 
only  now  she  would  do  so  it  might  not  be  too  late.  If 
only  now  she  would  do  so  he  would  never  again  grow 
desperate.  He  loved  her.  Yes,  his  love  was  himself. 
Like  the  big  life  in  him,  it  was  now  pent  up,  choked 
back.  In  a  moment  he  would  be  wearing  the  mask  of 
indifference  so  often  mentally  assumed  in  rehearsals  of 
their  next  meeting. 

Slowly  he  mounted  the  steps  and  pulled  the  bell.  It 
was  answered  by  a  familiar  figure.  Failing  at  first  to 
recognize  Lloyd  in  the  gathering  dusk,  Timothy  stood 
waiting  with  tray  held  forward  for  a  card. 

Enoch  almost  recoiled.  The  long  black  sleeve  and 
thin  hand  suggested  something  hauntingly  unpleasant. 
While  he  fumbled  in  his  pockets  his  thoughts  were  grop- 
ing about  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  that  arm.  Yes,  he  re- 
membered now.  From  his  peculiarly  sensitive  mental 
retina  even  the  trivial  accessories  of  a  crucial  moment 
were  seldom  obliterated.  Time  and  again  they  flashed 
forth  to  mirror  the  past  in  the  present.  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered now.  This  very  same  hand  had  held  out  the  two 
letters  that  had  changed  the  look  of  his  life.  He  saw 
it  stuck  in  at  hi's  cabin  door  first  with  Mr.  Lee's  an- 
nouncement of  failure,  then  with  Marion's  curt  good- 
bye. 

"Won't  you  step  in,  sir?" 
263 


The  Triumph   of  Life 

The  impassive  voice  recalled  him  to  himself.  "Yes. 
How  are  you,  Timothy?" 

"Mr.  Lloyd!  Why,  sir,  I  didn't  know  you.  Maybe 
it's  gone  to  the  eyes."  He  helped  Enoch  off  with  his 
coat. 

"What's  gone?" 

"The  sciatica,  sir.  It  goes  everywhere  —  leastwise 
comes." 

Lloyd  glanced  at  his  mask  of  cold  formality,  visible  in 
the  hat-rack  mirror.  "But  not  to  the  eyes." 

Timothy  shook  his  head  despondently.  "You  never 
can  tell.  I've  heard  some  say  as  how  it  hurt  their  im- 
mortal souls,  it's  that  wicked,  sir.  I  call  it  the  wickedest 
of  ailments." 

"But  not  to  the  eyes,"  repeated  Lloyd,  vaguely  re- 
membering that  eyes  had  something  to  do  with  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Why  not,  sir?"  despaired  the  victim  of  the  wickedest 
ailment.  "It  '11  go  wherever  it  can,  and  the  eyes  is 
easy  to  get  at." 

Lloyd  laughed,  averting  his  own  from  the  mirror. 
"True  enough,  too  easy.  Shall  I  go  in  here?" 

"No,  if  you  please.  Miss  Lee's  above,  in  the  library. 
She  said  I  should  show  you  up." 

Enoch  started  for  the  stairs,  the  old  man-servant  pain- 
fully limping  behind  him.  "It  dotes  on  stairs,"  vent- 
ured Timothy,  wrinkling  with  obvious  wile. 

"What  does?" 

"Sciatica,  sir." 

Enoch  smiled  at  the  ancient  sly-dog  '  You  need  not 
come  up." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Lloyd.  The  first  door  on  the  left, 
sir — if  you'll  excuse  me." 

With  an  air  of  casual  nonchalance,  in  perfect  accord 
with  his  mask,  Enoch  ascended  the  heavily  carpeted 
stairway.  At  the  door  on  the  left  he  paused.  It  was 

264 


The   Hour   of   Stephen   Lee 

wide  open.  Already  the  darkness  of  evening  had  gath- 
ered in  the  library.  Nothing  save  the  light  of  a  wide 
wood  fire  opposite  the  doorway  and  the  gas-jet  in  the 
hall  illuminated  the  interior.  Facing  the  fire  stood  a 
low  leather  arm-chair,  just  above  the  back  of  which  a 
golden  glimmer,  softly  suffusive,  revealed  her  identity- 
By  her  side  stood  a  massive  round  table  covered  with 
books  —  books  open  as  though  she  had  been  reading, 
books  closed  and  lying  at  random  as  if,  after  a  moment 
with  each,  she  had  ruthlessly  tossed  it  from  her. 

He  wondered  if  thoughts  of  him  had  rendered  reading 
impossible.  Did  she  ever  regret  the  sending  of  that 
heartless  letter?  Perhaps,  if  some  day  she  were  to  know 
the  results  of  it,  she  would  feel  sorry.  If  only  she  could 
realize  that  under  the  surface  nothing  in  the  world  meant 
much  to  him  nowadays  except  his  longing  for  her,  possi- 
bly she  would  at  least  be  kind.  Why  was  he  doomed  to 
take  things  so  seriously?  Why  was  he  so  primeval  in 
his  feelings?  It  seemed  hard  that  he  should  have  so 
much  capacity  for  bigness  in  life  and  love  and  action,  and 
yet  must  choke  it  back  and  try  to  be  coldly  modern, 
prosaic,  tame.  Yes,  he  was  living  centuries  too  late. 
Even  now,  when  the  folly,  the  wild  insanities  of  boyhood 
had  been  knocked  out  of  him,  this  assertion  remained. 
He  was  too  elemental  for  the  life  of  to-day. 

"Oh,  Marion!" 

He  started  forward.  He  had  spoken  her  name  aloud. 
Involuntarily  it  had  burst  from  him. 

She  stood  up  and  turned,  blushing  crimson. 

Who  knows  but  what  then,  after  that  first  moment  of 
silence,  the  courses  of  their  lives  might  have  suddenly 
turned.  Surprises  are  the  coups  of  love. 

But,  as  chance  would  have  it,  the  door  of  the  adjoin- 
ing room  opened,  and  they  stood  apart  helplessly  embar- 
rassed. Their  faces  fell. 

' '  Hum-m !  one  might  think  you  two  were  a  couple  of 
265 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

owls."  Mr.  Lee,  who  had  paused  on  the  threshold,  ad- 
vanced to  the  hearth  and  turned  with  hands  behind  him, 
waggling  his  coat-tails  to  the  blaze  in  a  perfect  flurry  of 
good-humor.  "  A  couple  of  moping  owls."  He  glanced 
quizzically  up  at  Enoch.  "I'm  waiting  to  hear  you 
hoot." 

Instantly  Enoch's  face  brightened  with  laughter,  and 
Marion,  warming  into  life,  affectionately  kissed  her  father. 

"There,  there."  beamed  the  little  old  gentleman, 
"that's  better!  Mr.  Lloyd,  it  cheers  the  cockles  of  my 
heart  to  see  you.  Come,  draw  up  chairs.  No,  thanks; 
I'll  take  my  own."  He  did  so,  and,  joining  his  finger- 
tips, gazed  over  them  into  the  fire.  "Now  for  a  chat. 
Marion  tells  me  this  hour  is  always  to  be  my  own.  There's 
nothing  better  after  the  day  is  done — nothing  so  dear  to 
me."  The  finger-tips  now  and  then  parted,  and  lightly 
touched  again  with  the  mild  uncertainty  of  age.  "Noth- 
ing so  kind.  What,  my  Marion,  no  tea?  The  kettle  is 
usually  boiling  over  by  now.  We've  lost  time.  What 
is  it  they  say? 

' '  If  the  water  boiling  be, 
Seven  minutes  to  make  the  tea." 

Leaning  forward,  he  turned  and  bent  his  gaze  on  a  far 
corner  of  the  room,  where  stood  a  small  table  holding  a 
silver  tray  with  cups  and  saucers,  kettle  and  teapot,  and 
various  accessories  of  the  brew.  "Dear  me,"  said  he, 
with  a  knowing  twinkle,  "the  wick  isn't  even  lighted. 
So  we've  lost  just  seven  minutes  of  the  hour  that's  my 
very  own."  Settling  back  with  a  blink  of  mischief,  he 
nodded  at  the  blaze. 

Marion  nastened  to  the  tea-table. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  said  Enoch,  following  her. 

Thus  were  the  seven  minutes  of  the  rhyme  stolen  from 
their  rightful  owner. 

While  the  little  old  gentleman  exchanged  cheerful 

266 


The   Hour   o£   Stephen   Lee 

beams  with  the  fire,  and  proved  how  precise  he  could  be 
in  touching  the  finger-tips  of  one  hand  to  the  tips  of 
the  fingers  of  the  other,  the  tall  silver  kettle  began  to 
sputter  at  its  two  attendants,  as  if  disputing  the  right 
of  any  other  heart  save  its  own  to  bubble  with  hap- 
piness. 

The  hum  of  the  officiating  couple  was  constantly 
broken  by  the  delicate  affairs  of  brewing.  "I'm  so 
sorry,"  said  the  priestess  of  the  urn,  at  work  with  cap- 
able, sure  fingers,  "but  our  letters  —  no,  no;  don't  do 
that.  We  must  scald  it  first.  There!  Now  you  may — 
our  letters  crossed.  Mine  was  not  an  answer.  (Yes, 
that's  right,  four  teaspoonfuls.)  How  could  you  have 
thought  me  so  hard?  (Look!  What  have  you  done? 
You've  put  the  tea  in  the  kettle!  S-sh,  never  mind. 
Four  more  in  here.)  And  I  wanted  so  much  to  find  you. 
It  was  all  a  mistake.  If  I  had  received  your  letter — 
yes,  bring  the  table  to  the  fire  —  I  would  never  have 
written  as  I  did.  Of  course,  we  must  be  friends." 

Lloyd  started  towards  her.  "Do  you  mean — "  But 
as  the  cups  and  saucers  on  the  table  he  was  holding  loud- 
ly rattled  a  warning,  he  could  only  stand  still  and  be 
sputtered  at  by  the  vociferous  spout  of  the  kettle.  "Oh, 
Marion,  Marion!" 

She  laughed  gayly  at  his  discomfiture. 

"Seven!"  chirruped  Mr.  Lee,  making  believe  he  had 
been  counting  the  minutes.  "Do  I  not  hear  it  boiling? 
Time's  up.  This  is  my  hour,  you  know.  Maid  Marion 
always  says  so." 

The  procession  of  the  tea  was  quickly  over. 

"There;  now  leave  it,"  said  Mr.  Lee,  "and  let  it  brew. 
Well,  Lloyd,  I'm  glad  you've  turned  up  at  last.  I  wrote 
you  a  letter  last  month,  but  I  didn't  know  where  to  send 
it,  you've  been  such  a  recluse  lately.  The  Greatest  Good 
has  just  been  published  in  England." 

Enoch  started.     "In  England?" 
267 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

"Yes,  but  don't  get  your  hopes  up,  though,  of  course, 
it  is  slightly  encouraging  to  you." 

Enoch  said  nothing.  Again  he  was  at  a  cross-road 
that  baffled  his  calculations. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  continued  the  publisher,  with  inter- 
est, "what  book  next  from  your  fertile  brain?  The 
Greatest  Good  must  be  followed  by  another.  It's  only 
right.  That  book  was  a  kind  of  promise  to  the  world — 
a  sacred  promise  of  better  things.  Of  course,  you  will 
keep  your  word.  Your  second  must  be  a  fulfilment. 
But  here;  how  about  the  tea?  Try  it,  Marion." 

When  the  priestess  of  the  urn  had  recourse  to  the  tea- 
pot, she  darted  a  glance  of  misgiving  at  the  genie  of  that 
particular  vessel.  The  teapot  felt  so  light,  and  Mr.  Lee 
was  waiting  with  interest  to  note  the  color  of  the  con- 
coction that  should  presently  appear.  Slowly  she  in- 
clined the  spout,  so  far  that  at  last  it  was  hidden  in  the 
cup.  Her  father  leaned  forward,  staring.  The  cup  was 
empty.  Not  a  drop.  The  evil  genie  of  the  teapot  was 
already  shaking  with  silent  mirth. 

"What  in  the  world,"  began  Mr.  Lee — "what  in  the 
world — " 

"  Oh,"  laughed  Marion,  in  flushed  embarrassment,  "we 
must  have  forgotten  the  water!" 

Her  father  nodded.  "That  is  a  plausible  solution." 
He  peered  down  at  the  dry  leaves.  "That,  in  fact,  is  the 
only  solution  I  can  at  present  perceive."  Tickled  by  the 
pun,  he  cocked  an  indulgent  eye  at  Marion,  under  a 
frown. 

Thus,  beginning  with  a  pretty  misadventure,  the  trio 
set  out  for  a  ramble  that  led  them,  as  once  before  in  the 
House  of  Dreams,  to  the  pleasant  by-paths  of  conversa- 
tion. And  the  presence  of  Age  held  Youth  to  the  way, 
with  fair  success,  considering  Youth's  propensity  for  mad 
essays  into  the  wilds  around  them. 

Almost,  Lloyd  was  at  heart  content.  Again  by  mere- 

268 


The   Hour   of  Stephen    Lee 

ly  being  their  own  true  selves  these  two  had  won  him  to 
them.  Before  the  fire,  the  heavy  round  table  between 
them,  sat  Enoch  and  Stephen  Lee,  Marion  at  her  father's 
feet  on  the  hearth-rug.  Naturally  this  large,  old  room, 
unspeakably  restful  in  the  firelight,  could  harbor  little 
disquiet.  Who  enters  here,  it  seemed  to  say,  leaves  the 
turmoil  of  life  behind  him.  Indeed,  the  library,  aglow 
with  beams  from  the  grate,  and  yet  so  peaceful,  breathed 
the  very  spirit  of  its  master.  The  gentle  philosopher 
was  everywhere  apparent.  Between  the  windows  and 
beside  the  fireplace  low  lines  of  shelves  were  surmounted 
by  a  row  of  flower-pots  in  which  grew  his  favorite  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  catching  at  present  the  fire's  glimmer 
and  proclaiming  themselves  his  children  by  a  hundred 
happy  points  of  resemblance.  Below  them,  row  under 
row  to  the  floor,  a  number  of  his  books  in  faded,  unosten- 
tatious bindings  lined  the  shelves.  Evading  the  careless 
eye,  yet  inviting  the  gaze  of  their  lovers,  these  were  no 
such  heavy,  ponderous  tomes  as  those  of  the  ancestral 
homestead.  They  belonged  to  a  far  more  genial  gen- 
eration. 

From  his  arm-chair  at  one  end  of  the  hearth-rug 
Lloyd's  glance,  passing  Mr.  Lee,  who  sat  at  the  other, 
was  frequently  drawn  in  their  direction. 

The  little  old  publisher  recognized  the  glance.  It  was 
the  spirit  of  book-love  deep  in  this  look  that  he  had 
lived  to  inspire  in  thousands  of  readers.  "Bring  me 
the  Spenser,  dear — one  volume.  I  hope  we  didn't  leave 
them  in  Bristol.  No?  That's  good."  When  Marion  had 
brought  him  the  book  he  held  it  out  to  Enoch.  "Can  you 
see  it  in  the  firelight  ?  That's  the  first  American  edition." 

Lloyd's  gaze  bent  near  to  the  title-page.  "Yes,  yes," 
he  said,  closing  the  treasure  tenderly.  "  This  is  the  vol- 
ume you  are  holding  in  the  portrait."  He  glanced  up 
at  the  walls.  "  I  see  you  haven't  brought  the  picture  to 
New  York." 

269 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Lee;  "it  prefers  the  country." 

Lloyd  smiled.  "So  say  we  all  of  us.  I  should  like  to 
be  there  myself  at  this  very  moment." 

He  shot  a  look  at  Marion. 

"  We  go  back  to  Bristol  in  May,"  she  announced,  sur- 
veying the  hearth-rug. 

Enoch  did  not  withdraw  his  gaze.  His  steps  in  the  by- 
paths of  conversation  were  soon  halting.  Gone  were  the 
books,  the  priceless  first  edition,  all  those  treasures  in 
thought  and  value.  Slowly  they  faded  from  his  mind. 
Deaf  were  his  ears  to  the  homilies  of  the  gentle  philoso- 
pher. Only  Marion's  face  was  vivid  to  his  sight — the 
face  of  the  sea-deep,  dew-gray  eyes,  the  noble  brow  and 
the  flame  above,  corona-like,  beneficent.  Only  her  voice 
— the  voice  of  the  violoncello — was  actual  to  his  hearing. 

At  last,  with  a  quick  uplift  of  her  lashes,  Marion  dumb- 
ly protested.  The  look  said  as  eloquently  as  though  her 
heart  had  spoken,  "Don't,  don't!  I  ask  you.  Isn't  it 
enough  if  we  are  friends?  Don't,  or — "  The  last  sug- 
gestion of  her  eyes  being  emphasized  by  a  stir  and  rustle, 
as  though  flight  were  imminent,  freed  her  from  his  gaze, 
and  the  wilds  were  eschewed  as  too  dangerous  for  ex- 
ploration. 

"  Father,  we  must  show  Mr.  Lloyd  the  new  illuminated 
Shelley." 

And  so  passed  the  hour  of  Mr.  Lee,  the  hour  between 
the  day  and  the  night  of  his  life.  So  passed  the  hour  of 
Mr.  Lee,  and  he  smiled  at  its  gentle  going.  Over  his  tea- 
cup he  beamed  at  them  with  many  a  harmless  jest  and 
quaint  dissertation,  till  at  last  the  fire  fell  in  with  a 
crash  and  the  temporary  passing  of  Lloyd  was  in  order. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Lee;  I  must  be  going."     He  smiled 
with  free  earnestness  into  her  bashful  eyes.     "Good- 
night, Mr.  Lee;  I  trust  you  will  let  me  come  here  often 
Somehow,  I  feel  as  though  you  were  my  good  angel." 

Marion,  rising,  bent  close  to  her  father's  chubby,  pink 

270 


The   Hour    of   Stephen    Lee 

cheek  affectionately.  "He  should  have  said  cherub," 
she  dared  to  whisper  in  the  paternal  ear,  and,  looking  up, 
her  eyes  bade  Lloyd  a  very  good  evening.  Which  it  was, 
and  better  within  him  than  any  other  for  many  a  moon, 
thanks  to  this  hour  of  its  coming. 

The  last  that  Enoch  saw,  as  he  turned  on  leaving  the 
room,  was  the  little  old  gentleman  in  his  arm-chair,  his 
head  bowed  slightly  forward,  and  Marion's  eyes,  limpid 
and  gray  as  the  morning  dew,  deep  as  the  sea,  wistfully 
saying  good-bye  over  her  father's  shoulder. 

Enoch  went  home  through  the  cool  night  air  as 
though  on  wings.  Only  once  he  stopped,  and  then  sud- 
denly. Dolly  Cohen,  his  second  self,  his  own  creation 
— what  of  her?  Thank  God,  her  hour  had  passed  that 
evening! 

Walking  on,  with  a  sudden  return  to  gayety,  "Eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,"  he  confidently  warned  her,  "for 
to-morrov;  you  die." 


VIII 
The    Supreme    Court 

MARCH,  vicious  as  a  rabid  dog,  still  ran  amuck  in 
the  city.     Through  Sunday  night  a   gale  rushed 
howling  from  river  to  river.     On  Monday  morning  the 
brute  died.     Snow  fell,  and,  at  noon,  rain.     The  streets 
were  foul  with  slush. 

Lloyd  looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  appeared  so  leaden  as 
to  suggest  a  permanent  grayness.  His  face  for  the  mo- 
ment expressed  a  similar  condition.  Huddled  at  his 
desk  as  though  the  chill  penetrated  to  his  marrow,  he 
was  reading  the  latest  manuscript  of  Dolly  Cohen.  Al- 
though he  had  unequivocally  doomed  it  to  destruction, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  her  as  well,  something  within  him 
stayed  him  from  punishing  his  lower  self  without  first 
arraigning  the  prisoner.  Lower  selves ,  when  caught ,  have 
a  trick  of  demanding  trial,  thanks  to  the  advice  of  their 
resourceful  counsel.  Delay  is  the  last  device  of  the  dev- 
il's advocate.  He  thrives  on  procrastination.  While 
there's  a  chance  he  quibbles  with  justice,  fawns  on  the 
judge,  and  invokes  the  aid  of  heaven  in  the  interests  of 
hell.  A  perfect  master  of  demagogies,  this  doctor  of 
Satanic  law  possesses  an  eminent  genius  for  chicane. 
He  is,  in  short,  in  the  slang  of  the  legal  fraternity,  a 
shyster.  The  devil's  advocate  is  the  father  of  shysters. 

Though  the  sentence  in  the  present  case  had  already 
been  pronounced,  this  incorrigible  D.S.L.  up  and  pled 
for  pardon  on  the  ground  of  an  extenuating  circum- 
stance. So  persistently  is  the  lower  self  defended. 

272 


The   Supreme   Court 

Lloyd  skimmed  through  the  typewritten  manuscript. 

What  easy  work  this  had  been!  How  mechanical! 
There  was  no  denying  that  many  could  have  done  it  bet- 
ter than  himself.  For  every  genius  a  thousand  hacks 
are  born.  Nevertheless,  he  had  accomplished  one  thing: 
by  hook  or  crook  he  had  grasped  that  which  on  a  certain 
night  had  seemed  so  desperately  impossible.  Success? 
Yes,  in  a  way,  success.  Imagination  so  often  degener- 
ates into  ingenuity,  the  facile  into  the  prolific,  the  one 
genius  into  one  of  the  thousand  hacks,  and  the  sham 
succeeds!  He  could  not  even  color  the  dismal  fact  by 
telling  himself  that  there  was  something  unusual  in  this, 
something  exceptional,  merely  because  his  work  hap- 
pened to  be  creative  and  literary.  Many  a  statesman 
had  succumbed  to  politics,  many  a  philosopher  to  cyni- 
cism, many  a  saint  to  hypocrisy.  Of  course  the  shirk- 
ing of  that  responsibility  always  profoundly  incumbent 
on  a  creative  spirit  rendered  him,  in  a  sense,  more  blam- 
able  than  those  who  avoid  less  exalted  duties.  But  the 
degree  of  wrong  is  wholly  relative,  and  his  present  lapse, 
looked  at  from  the  stand-point  of  his  genius,  seemed  far 
too  intricate  for  analysis  to  his  mind  in  its  present  state. 
He  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  considering  his  case 
as  above  and  apart  from  that  of  other  shirkers.  Even 
the  questionable  refuge  of  lofty  though  regretful  con- 
templation was  denied  him.  To  put  it  plainly,  he  was 
like  any  one  else  who  surrenders  at  the  first  defeat.  Were 
they  not  all  authors?  Was  not  every  man  and  woman 
on  earth  an  author — an  author  of  deeds,  words,  influ- 
ences— each  life  a  volume  tending  to  ennoble  or  degrade 
a  circle  of  readers  in  the  great  free  library  of  mankind? 

But  was  there  no  middle  course — average  industry, 
neither  of  high  ideals  nor  low?  As  the  stream  of  these 
perplexities  flowed  on  like  a  troubled  undercurrent,  it 
seemed  in  this  last  question  to  meet  a  rock  or  dam  of 
the  mind  and  grew  clamorously  insistent.  Lloyd  fell  to 
is  273 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

thinking  of  the  first  book  he  had  written  after  The  Great- 
est Good.  Vividly  he  recalled  the  moment  in  which  his 
pseudonym  had  suggested  itself.  How  base  and  sordid 
the  name  had  sounded!  How  grotesquely  and  diamet- 
rically opposed  to  his  own!  Nevertheless,  it  was  Fate — 
yes,  Fate,  whispered  the  devil's  advocate  with  dramatic 
intensity;  it  was  Fate  that  had  prompted  the  selection. 
The  name,  suggested  by  the  discovery  of  a  fact  incred- 
ibly startling,  had  not  been  arbitrarily  chosen.  It  had 
existed  from  the  very  beginning.  Granted,  then,  that 
the  prisoner  had  attempted  to  annihilate  the  author  of 
The  Greatest  Good.  The  crime  had  never  been  premed- 
itated. Evidently  he  had  known  a  moment  of  intense 
bitterness  and  disappointment,  the  disappointment  not 
only  of  failure  in  literature  but  in  the  strongest  of  hu- 
man passions — love.  Despair  had  darkened  his  brain. 
At  such  a  moment  the  mind  is  scarcely  to  be  held  respon- 
sible. Then  suddenly  this  name  had  been  thrust  upon 
him  by  a  laughing,  malevolent,  superhuman  agency.  And 
he,  wildly  laughing  too,  had  assumed  the  name  as  an 
alias,  and  in  that  moment  of  desperation  had  attempted 
the  life  of  his  highest  self.  Since  then,  borne  down  by 
this  name,  and  fitting  his  work  to  his  conception  of  the 
flippant,  sordid  character  its  sound  implied,  he  had  nat- 
urally degenerated. 

The  doctor  of  Satanic  law  here  pausing,  his  opponent 
for  the  plaintiff  quietly  delivered  himself  in  this  wise: 
Fate  goes  just  so  far,  no  farther..  Its  jurisdiction  ceases 
at  the  borders  of  the  heart.  Into  the  heart  it  cannot 
enter  unless  admitted  by  the  man  himself.  The  shoul- 
ders of  Fate  already  are  bent  with  unmerited  burdens.  A 
man  who  is  true  bears  the  weight  of  his  own  misdeeds 
himself. 

Thus,  in  that  final  Court  of  Appeals,  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  Soul,  Lloyd  sat  upon  his  case. 

His  mind,  though  now  made  up.  wearily  entertained  the 

274 


The   Supreme  Court 

arguments.  Confident  of  liberty  in  the  worldly  sense, 
he  was  struggling  for  an  even  more  desirable  freedom. 
He  craved  immunity  from  remorse.  It  was  an  ugly 
thing  to  think  that  he,  Enoch  Lloyd,  the  idealist,  had 
debased  himself.  Until  Saturday  night  he  had  been  able 
to  stifle  that  consciousness  within  him.  Clicking  away 
at  his  typewriting  -  machine  day  after  day  and  night 
after  night  in  deafening  drudgery,  he  had  had,  at  first, 
no  ear  for  the  inner  whisper.  Then  later,  when  success 
and  money  had  come,  the  spirit  of  pleasure-seeking  had 
postponed  this  inevitable  reckoning.  Now,  at  last,  noth- 
ing could  delay  it.  By  a  strange  freak  of  circumstance 
he  had  on  Saturday  night  suddenly  met  the  personifica- 
tion of  his  second  self  face  to  face.  The  pseudonym  had 
shaped  a  living  being.  Dolly  Cohen  existed  in  flesh  and 
blood!  The  wrong  he  had  done  lived  in  the  world  with 
him,  actual  as  himself.  He  confronted-  an  appalling 
conviction.  What's  in  a  name?  So  much,  he  thought, 
that  even  God  Himself  without  some  name  would  be  to 
man  no  God  at  all.  At  the  mention  of  this  supreme  ap- 
pellation he  recalled  an  incident  of  years  ago.  "  It  was 
Enoch,  my  lad,  who  'walked  with  God.'"  How  aptly 
long  -  forgotten  words  return!  It  seemed  a  detestable 
trick  of  memory.  Perhaps  each  saying  like  that  has  a 
far-distant  psychological  moment  in  which  to  aid  in  the 
making  or  the  marring  of  a  life.  Possibly  even  beyond 
the  grave  it  finds  its  mark.  Was  this  the  meaning  of  the 
one  perfect  Master  of  words — of  Him  whose  words  have 
inspired  myriads  of  men — when  He  proclaimed  the  aw- 
fulness  of  language?  Here  was  a  paralyzing  thought. 
Lloyd  leaned  back,  staring  at  his  manuscript.  Yet  sure- 
ly his  work  was  not  evil.  Certainly  the  first  book  writ- 
ten under  his  pen-name  was  lacking  entirely  in  anything 
good  or  bad.  Such  words  as  those  could  have  no  effect 
on  any  one — he  paused,  startled — save,  perhaps,  himself. 
Might  not  their  influence  in  a  way  be  retroactive — the 

275 


The  Triumph    of  Life 

fact  that  he  had  stooped  from  positive  ideals  to  negative 
mediocrity  ?  Cant  and  hackneyed  phrases  came  bluntly 
to  his  mind.  They  have  a  certain  force  sometimes.  He 
had  "smothered  the  divine  spark,"  had  "not  lived  up  to 
the  best  that  was  in  him."  As  though  to  substantiate 
that  which  had  just  occurred  to  him  concerning  psycho- 
logical moments  and  their  one  Master,  a  command  of 
that  Master  returned  to  him  now  with  telling  power. 
"  Hide  not  your  light."  Here  was  a  decree  succinct  and 
vital  as  any  in  the  Decalogue,  and  those  of  the  Decalogue 
he  "had  kept  from  his  youth  up."  What  a  medley  of 
quotations!  One  old  saw  after  another,  hitherto  re- 
garded as  obsolete,  rushed  with  a  new  and  personal  effi- 
cacy to  his  mind.  Yet,  with  the  persistent  self-defence 
of  youth,  he  met  each  attack  of  these  convictions  with 
renewed  vigor,  till  at  last,  being  almost  worsted,  he 
pleaded  guilty,  and,  after  another  custom  common  to 
such  natures,  said  inwardly  to  the  victorious  enemy: 
"Now  make  the  most  of  it.  The  thing  is  negative. 
There's  no  real  harm  been  done,  and  besides  it's  now 
forever  in  the  past."  To  this  the  arraigning  voice  con- 
tented itself  with  merely  questioning  his  veracity.  No 
harm?  No  harm?  The  question  rankled.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  one  never  drifts  without  going  down- 
ward. His  second  book  had  not  possessed  quite  the 
same  mediocre  innocence  as  the  first.  And  the  latest, 
now  before  him,  never  to  be  published — well,  he  could 
not  have  been  commonplace  long.  His  talent  must  find 
an  outlet  somewhere.  It  would  tell,  either  for  good  or 
bad.  The  heart  of  genius  is  the  half-way  house  between 
hell  and  heaven. 

He  glanced  down  into  the  street.  In  a  few  hours  that 
pure  white  mantle  of  the  morning  had  been  turned  to 
filth.  Here  was  a  sombre  simile:  Heaven  sent  purity  a 
year  ago,  and  now — slush. 

He  stood  up,  dully  resolute.  Thank  God,  he  had  still 

276 


The   Supreme    Court 

the  future.  As  for  the  actual  woman  in  the  case,  her 
existence  could  be  ignored.  The  Dolly  Cohen  oi  his 
creation  was  dead  and  gone. 

Dead  and  gone?  How  the  actual  woman  would  have 
laughed  had  she  heard  the  demise  of  her  dearest  sham 
thus  confidently  proclaimed!  How  gayly  would  her 
merriment  have  tinkled  in  derision! 

Dead  and  gone?  Dolly  Cohen?  Not  she.  Ready  at 
the  beck  of  the  devil's  advocate,  she  was  even  at  this 
moment  tripping  lightly  hither  to  go  on  the  witness- 
stand. 

Dead  and  gone?  Nay,  nay;  he  had  reckoned  with- 
out his  evil.  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  she  would,  but 
the  many-lived  cattishness  in  her  refused  to  die. 

"Papa,"  she  whispered,  in  the  hall  below,  "is  the  top 
floor  front  at  home?" 

"Yes,  I  think." 

"Praise  Heaven!  But  I  don't  hear  the  sound  of  his 
writing." 

"No;  he  is  not  M'sieur  Clickety-tap  any  more.  There 
has  not  been  a  click  since  Saturday  evening." 

Dolly  bit  her  lip.  "Ah!  but  there  shall  be  soon.  That 
clickety-tapping  is  music  to  my  ears." 

Moreau  twirled  up  the  ends  of  his  mustache  and 
smiled  at  her  with  debonair  curiosity.  "Now,  why,  my 
dear  Celeste — " 

"  Dolly!"  she  corrected  him,  vehemently.  " My  name 
is  Miss  Dolly  Cohen." 

He  closed  one  eye,  and  with  the  other  quizzed  her 
keenly.  "Oh,  la-la;  Dolly,  indeed.  Eh  bien,  what  next, 
ma  chere?" 

"There  shall  be  no  'next.'  Dolly  I  live,  Dolly  I  die. 
It  is  the  best — ahem! — alias  I  have  yet  chosen.  Where's 
the  dear  mother?" 

"The  dear  mother  is  in  the  kitchen." 

277 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

"Good!  Keep  her  there.  Bake  her  a  cake,  some- 
thing she  likes,  something  large  —  un  gateau  dnorme. 
Feed  her." 

Monsieur  nodded,  winking.  "Tout  d'  suite,  ma  chere, 
and  later  you  will  tell  me — " 

Quickly  kissing  one  of  the  uptwirled  ends  of  his  facial 
adornment,  "Yes,  yes,  later,"  she  promised,  and  has- 
tened up-stairs.  "  Peut-etre,"  she  mentally  conditioned. 

As  for  the  actual  woman  in  the  case,  her  existence 
could  be  ignored.  The  Dolly  Cohen  of  his  creation  was 
dead  and  gone. 

A  light  double  rap  on  the  door  succeeded  this  fatuous 
assertion. 

With  hasty  caution  Enoch  transferred  the  neat,  white 
pile  of  manuscript  to  his  desk  drawer.  Who  had  come  ? 
Was  it  Cuthbert  Morton  again?  Well,  he  could  now 
meet  Cutty  with  a  freer  eye.  Crossing  to  the  door,  he 
unlocked  and  opened  it;  then  started  back,  disconcerted. 
For  a  moment  the  actual  woman,  trig  with  a  tight-fitting 
walking-dress  and  firmly  rolled  umbrella,  stood  on  the 
threshold  smiling  up  at  his  astonished  face.  The  smile 
broke  into  an  embarrassed  laugh.  "Oh,  don't  be  angry; 
I  couldn't  wait.  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 
Impulsively  she  stepped  close  to  him  and  rested  a 
hand  on  one  of  his  broad  shoulders.  "Tell  me  you 
will." 

Lloyd  receded  from  the  touch  of  her  fingers,  and,  turn- 
ing, went  bewilderedly  to  the  window.  It  is  curious 
how,  at  such  a  moment,  a  window  draws  one  to  it.  The 
mind,  as  though  with  a  natural  instinct,  seeks,  at  least 
the  prospect  of  liberty.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  her. 
"I've  nothing  to  forgive." 

Dolly  drew  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  with  iron- 
ical amusement.  Intuitively  realizing  that  for  once  she 
would  lose  by  nearness,  she  paused.  "Ah,  but  you  have. 

278 


The   Supreme   Court* 

Come,  come;  you're  very  inhospitable.     Let's  sit  down 
and  talk  it  over  as  man  to  man." 

For  mere  politeness'  sake  Enoch  drew  up  a  chair  for 
her,  and  seated  himself  at  the  desk.  "There's  nothing 
to  talk  about."  He  swept  the  hair  back  from  his  tem- 
ple. "Nothing  whatever." 

"  Oh,  but  there  is.     The  situation  has  been  so  funny." 

A  smile  stole  into  his  ever-ready  eyes.  "  Yes, has  been!" 

"And  is!"  flashed  Dolly.  Then,  again  assuming  her 
harmless  manner,  "Is  it  not?"  she  asked,  demurely,  and 
fell  to  following  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  with  her  um- 
brella-point. "  Let's  see;  it's  this  way:  An  author  writes 
a  book  which  is  so  beautiful,  so  noble  and  ideal  in  tone 
that  it  falls  flat.  The  public  is  not  yet  a  '  Heavenly  Host. ' 
It  even  resents  the  inference.  So  what  does  the  '  Herald 
Angel'  do?  He  dives  like  Lucifer  to  a  different  world. 
Here  he  will  not  be  cut;  he  may  even  be  worshipped." 
She  rose  and  courtesied,  and,  taking  one  of  his  hands  in 
hers,  kissed  it  with  airy  grace.  "Like  that." 

In  the  next  instant,  as  she  raised  her  head,  a  strained 
look  in  his  face  caught  her  attention.  "You  travesty 
life  to  a  nicety,"  he  commented,  bitterly.  (So  cleverly 
had  the  favorite  witness  of  the  devil's  advocate  testified 
against  him.) 

With  a  sigh  Dolly  changed  her  tone,  and,  reseating 
herself,  rested  a  hand  on  his  knee  consolingly.  The  case, 
in  his  opinion,  was  evidently  graver  than  she  had  been 
led  to  imagine.  "Why  look  so  forlorn?  You've  done 
nothing  wrong." 

"I?" 

"Of  course,  you.' 

His  eyes  met  hers  steadily.  A  few  short  months  had 
rendered  possible  a  bold  glance  of  deception.  Under  the 
scrutiny  of  Cuthbert  Morton  his  unpractised  eyes  had 
faltered.  Since  then  they  had  acquired  a  certain  cour- 
age of  the  sham. 

279 


•The   Triumph   of   Life 

"7f"  he  repeated.  "Do  you  still  cling  to  the  belief 
that  I  am  Dolly  Cohen?" 

Her  gaze  mocked  him  under  lowered  lashes.  "Do  you 
still  cling  to  the  pretence  that  you  aren't?"  She  scraped 
her  umbrella-point  with  a  motion  less  idle  from  side  to 
side  over  the  carpet,  as  though  scratching  out  some  ob- 
scure arabesque  of  her  fancy.  "Oh,  come,  what's  the 
use?  I  tell  you  I  know,  and  I  can  prove  it.  Do  you 
want  to  see  the  proof?  Oh,  don't  shrug  your  big  shoul- 
ders at  me.  I've  really  got  it.  Here,  see!"  She  opened 
her  chatelaine-bag  and  took  therefrom,  with  quick,  pick- 
pocket fingers,  a  scrap  of  paper  This  she  held  up  to 
his  eyes.  "Do  you  see  what  it  says?  Do  you  see  that 
name'?  Whose  handwriting  is  this?  Now,  tell  me." 

Lloyd  fumbled  for  his  cigarette-case .     ' '  Well ,  whose  ? ' ' 

"Naturally,  I  suppose  it's  yours,"  she  answered,  in  a 
pleasant  Voice,  "since  I  stole  the  scrap  from  your  waste- 
basket." 

Enoch  started,  shot  a  glance  under  the  desk  and  then 
at  her  hand,  as  though  measuring-  the  distance  between 
it  and  the  receptacle  in  question.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say — "  He  studied  her  fingers  in  surprised  admiration, 
much  as  one  watches  those  of  a  conjurer  on  the  stage. 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  got  it  under  my  very  eyes?" 

She  took  advantage,  quick  as  a  flash,  of  this  amusing 
supposition.  Of  course  he  had  written  the  name  and 
discarded  it  on  more  than  one  occasion.  "You  turned 
your  back  to  me  for  a  moment,  so  I  thought  it  well  to 
punish  you  for  that  unpardonable  piece  of  rudeness." 

The  mere  feel  of  an  unlighted  cigarette  in  his  fingers 
quieted  Enoch's  nerves.  "Well,  and  what  does  this 
prove?" 

She  held  up  the  scrap  again  and  mimicked  his  easy 
tone.  "Well,  and  what  does  it  say?" 

"I  see  the  name  'Dolly  Cohen.'" 

"  Yes;  and  you  wrote  the  name  '  Dolly  Cohen.' " 

280 


The   Supreme   Court 

"Perhaps  so;  but  doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that  I  may 
have  been  writing  a  review  of  one  of  Miss  Cohen's  inter- 
esting novels?"  He  smiled  with  triumph,  expecting  to 
see  her  wince,  but  in  this  he  was  disappointed.  "  Do  you 
mind  if  I  smoke?"  he  asked,  reaching  for  a  match. 

Appearing  abstracted,  she  fell  again  to  embellishing 
the  carpet's  design  with  imaginary  curlicues.  Would  it 
be  well  to  let  him  smoke?  Every  point  in  the  game, 
however  trifling,  came  within  the  notice  of  her  clever 
brain.  All  the  influential  trivialities  of  her  diplomacy 
would  be  potent  factors  in  the  present  instance.  With 
remarkable  acuteness  she  could  estimate  the  value  of 
trifles.  Even  a  cigarette  might  aid  her  in  imparting  that 
soothing  effect  so  often  efficacious  with  cases  of  the  kind. 
"  I  beg  pardon?" 

He  brightened,  believing  her  disconcerted.  "You  are 
absent-minded  to-day.  Small  wonder.  But,  of  course, 
you  don't  object  to  a  cigarette?" 

Dolly  coughed.  It  might  be  well  to  keep  him  uneasy 
for  a  time,  then  later  the  palliative  would  have  more  in- 
fluence. He  must  not  yet  have  an  aid  towards  self- 
command.  "No,  not  as  a  rule.  But  I'm  a  little  hoarse. 
The  weather  is  in  my  throat." 

Enoch  shifted,  and  they  both  were  silent,  until,  at  last, 
"You  see,"  he  observed,  dully,  "there  is  nothing  to  talk 
about." 

Dolly  sat  back  with  a  laugh,  and  surreptitiously  fin- 
gered the  diminutive  hunchback  dangling  at  her  side. 
His  calmness  piqued  her.  For  a  moment  she  forgot  her- 
self. "Pense-tu,  cherie?"  she  mocked,  after  the  way  of 
the  Boul'-Mich'.  "Then,  listen.  But,  no;  even  the 
walls  have  ears."  She  glanced  at  the  door  which  now 
and  again  swung  ajar  in  a  draught  from  the  Moreaus' 
bedroom.  "You  and  I  both  fear  ears,  don't  we?"  Ris- 
ing with  an  air  of  theatric  mystery,  she  bent  over  him 
and  whispered  first  one  name  and  then  another,  and 

281 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

next,  reversing  their  order,  repeated  the  two  with  slow 
significance. 

Enoch  trembled,  as  though  struck.  "God!"  Fling- 
ing out  his  arms  across  the  desk,  he  buried  his  face  in 
them. 

Dolly  stood  over  him  in  amazement.  Slowly  her  ex- 
pression changed;  it  softened.  Never  before  had  she 
been  at  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  Soul.  Never  before 
had  the  vital  emotions  of  another  been  utterly  devoid  of 
passion  for  herself.  Never  before  had  she  felt  shivers 
in  her  back  while  watching  at  the  struggle  of  a  man's 
two  selves.  Never  before  had  her  eyes  been  moist  with 
tears,  neither  of  coquetry  nor  caprice.  This  was,  in- 
deed, a  pretty  piece  of  business.  Why  should  the  sight 
of  his  bent  head  weaken  her  resolve?  Why  should  she 
stand  and  look  down  and  say  nothing  when  now,  at  this 
very  moment,  according  to  all  the  laws  of  her  diplomacy, 
she  should  have  cut  the  thread  of  the  Damocletian 
sword?  Why  should  she  falter  like  a  silly  girl?  Pah! 
The  fellow  had  got  upon  her  nerves.  What  nonsense! 
He  must  raise  his  head,  and  the  sword  must  fall.  Yet 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  recall  him  otherwise  than 
tenderly. 

The  tenderness  of  Dolly  was  thus  expressed: 

"Oh,  la-la-la!  Come!  It  doesn't  matter.  Take  a 
brace.  Smoke  up."  She  patted  his  head.  "Every- 
thing's all  right.  How  absurd!  What  a  baby!  What 
a  queer  duck!  Come!"  She  stole  the  cigarette  from  his 
fingers  and  struck  a  match.  In  another  second  a  puff 
of  smoke  from  her  quivering  lips  flurried  about  him. 
"Come,  smoke  up!  See,  I've  lighted  it  for  you." 

The  struggle  of  the  selves  was  over.  Lloyd  came  out 
of  it  with  added  strength.  Sitting  up  quietly,  he  shook 
his  head.  "No." 

Dolly  reseated  herself.  "Well,  then,  I'll  keep  it  my- 
self." She  flicked  away  a  flake  of  ashes.  Vivacity  was 

283 


The   Supreme   Court 

a  sure  cure  for  weakness.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  catching 
the  glitter  of  the  Damocletian  sword.  Yes,  yes;  over 
his  head  it  swung  on  the  thread  of  her  own  spinning. 
She  leaned  back.  A  duel  was  at  hand,  with  all  its  ex- 
citement and  finesse,  strategy  and  danger.  He  would 
fight  well.  His  weapon  was  the  heart  within  him.  She 
would  fight  better.  Hers  was  the  sword  that  heart  itself 
had  forged.  Swords  of  the  heart's  forging  invariably 
hang  over  the  head.  Her  eyes  danced.  The  name  and 
fame  by  which  she  lived  must  be  defended  at  all  hazards. 
How  terrible  to  contemplate  exposure! 

"You  see,  I've  won,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"I  see  you  have  lost." 

"Why  be  so  foolish?" 

"Why  be  so  blind?" 

"Blind?" 

"Yes.  not  to  see  that  I  am  determined.  What  if  you 
do  know?  I  confess  'Dolly  Cohen'  was  my  pseudonym 
— was,  you  understand!  The  sham  is  done  with."  His 
voice  fell.  "I  did  wrong." 

Dolly  took  a  long,  last  puff  at  her  cigarette  and  tossed 
it  into  the  fireless  grate.  "No,  no,  no!  It  was  all  nat- 
ural enough.  You  failed.  Well,  an  author  must  gain 
his  public  before  he  attempts  such  work  as  The  Greatest 
Good.  Who  can  rise  with  a  single  flight  to  the  summit  of 
Parnassus?  Even  you  haven't  wings  for  that.  It  is 
essential  first  to  toil  about  the  base  and  cut  a  road- 
way." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  slow  wonder.  "You  argue 
well." 

"  Besides,"  she  continued,  with  a  deprecatory  gesture, 
"your  books  are  not  bad.  They're  merely  written  to 
interest  the  reader.  Many  authors  write  solely  to  en- 
tertain, and  their  reputations  are  above  reproach.  We 
must  have  recreation  in  this  world." 

Lloyd  shook  his  head  drearily  "Some  are  doubtless 
283  ' 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

intended  merely  to  amuse  and  entertain,  while  others — " 
He  paused  and  drew  back  a  little. 

Dolly's  eyes  were  wide  open.  She  surveyed  him  for  a 
minute  with  speechless  curiosity;  then  she  smiled.  She 
saw  it  all  now.  How  droll !  It  had  not  been  only  fame 
that  he  wanted.  Here  was  one  of  those  extraordinary 
men  who  considered  he  had  a  mission.  Well  and  good; 
every  one  to  his  hobby-horse,  and  hers  was  the  part  to 
mount  him  on  it. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  with  a  remarkable  semblance 
of  comprehension  and  sympathy;  "but  there's  a  myth 
that  shows  that  the  world  cannot  be  moved  without  a 
lever." 

"You  are  very  clever,"  said  Lloyd,  calmly. 

She  began  again  to  follow  the  traceries  of  carpet  and 
imagination  with  her  umbrella  -  point.  What  did  she 
thus  design  with  her  restless  wand?  What  strange  ara- 
besques of  fancy  did  she  so  frequently  seem  to  suggest 
by  this  habit  with  the  slim  umbrella? 

Suddenly  she  felt  Enoch's  gaze  go  so  much  deeper  than 
usual  that  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and,  crossing  her 
tiny  ankles,  inserted  the  ferrule  between  them. 

But,  perhaps,  she  had  already  hinted  of  designs  in  two 
senses.  "No,"  said  Enoch,  as  if  to  himself,  "this  is  all 
sophistry." 

"Sophistry?" 

"Yes,  the  pot-boiling  of  mine  was  evil.  But  probably 
you  do  not  understand — " 

Dolly  interrupted  him  with  fervent  warmth.  "Oh, 
believe  me,  I  do."  Her  mind  was  casting  about  in  great 
commotion  for  another  argument.  "  I  do  appreciate  it." 
(Good,  she  had  found  one.)  "  I  understand  your  feelings, 
but  think  of  the  thing  clear-sightedly.  One  must  al- 
ways stoop  to  conquer.  You  can  do  far  more  good  in 
the  end  this  way  than  by  only  pleasing  the  dictates  of 
yourself."  She  instilled  great  earnestness  into  her  voice, 

284 


The  Supreme  Court 

and  did  it  well,  being,  indeed,  desperately  in  earnest.  "  It 
is  the  only  way  you  can  reach  the  masses." 

To  her  chagrin  he  only  smiled  at  this,  as  though  fore- 
armed against  all  but  her  ultimate  weapon.  "Oh,  I've 
said  that  to  myself  a  thousand  times.  You  seem  to 
speak  in  the  very  voice  of  my  temptation."  He  regard- 
ed her  with  a  new  consciousness,  lost  to  all  save  the  deeper 
situation.  "Yes;  you  are  my  lower  self  personified,"  he 
mused  aloud,  forgetting  even  her  presence  and  his  usual 
chivalry.  "You  speak  in  the  same  way;  you  bear  my 
pseudonym."  He  smiled  bitterly.'  "Perhaps  I  am 
Jekyll  and  you  are  Hyde." 

She  burst  out  laughing,  and  his  heart  recoiled.  The 
laugh  suggested  that  of  another  woman — the  outcast  of 
the  shaking  plumes — the  bird  of  prey  who  lately  had 
flapped  across  his  vision  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"I  am  Jekyll,"  he  repeated,  vaguely,  "and  you  are 
Hyde." 

Her  laughter  jangled  on  his  nerves.  "Thanks  for 
the  compliment.  I  had  no  idea  we  were  so  perfectly  at 
one." 

The  sheer  audacity  of  the  remark  put  him  off  his 
guard.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  a  smile  stole  into  his  eyes 
and  about  the  corners  of  his  expressive  mouth,  until  at 
last  he,  too,  laughed — laughed  outright;  but  his  laugh- 
ter was  boyish,  and  a  look  of  mischief  lighted  up  his  face. 
He  was  dangerously  confident  of  his  own  advantage. 
Not  unlike  a  boy  before  the  cage  of  a  panther,  he  began, 
with  one  of  his  fatal  transitions  of  mood,  to  take  pleasure 
in  amusedly  inspecting  this  feline  creature  from  outside 
the  bars  of  his  fixed  resolve.  He  began  to  find  diversion 
and  self-elation  in  regarding  her  with  a  kind  of  pitying 
mirth.  Like  Tartarin — defiant,  vainglorious  Tartarin 
before  the  lion's  crge — he  could  well  be  bold.  Evidently 
he  was  on  mischief  bent.  The  boy  would  out  in  him, 
with  all  its  love  of  teasing  pranks  and  folly,  its  delight  in 

285 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

danger,  its  braggadocio  and  reckless  fling.  Even  at  this 
critical  moment,  when  maturity  should  have  marshalled 
its  forces,  the  eternal  boy  would  out.  Besides,  it  was  a 
great  relief  to  appear  careless. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  rising  buoyantly,  "Dolly  Cohen  has 
had  her  day.  You  have  enjoyed  the  name  and  the  fame 
and  some  of  the  money.'' 

Dolly  raised  her  brows  and  glanced  about  the  room, 
from  the  daubed  creations  of  the  Latin  Quarter  to  the 
damp  stains  on  the  wall.  "I'm  sorry  about  the  money," 
she  told  him,  with  pretty  penitence.  "We  must  share 
the  profits  in  future.  I  hope  you've  another  book  done. 
Mr.  Steele  is  clamoring  for  more." 

Lloyd  darted  a  hand  to  his  desk  drawer.  "That's  just 
what  I  was  going  to  speak  of.  You  know  I  warned  you 
about  it  the  other  night.  Yes;  I  have  written  a  book. 
See!" 

Pulling  open  the  drawer,  he  took  out  the  neat,  white 
pile  of  manuscript,  and  flaunted  it  before  her  eyes.  Thus, 
no  doubt,  did  Tartarin  wave  at  the  hungry  lion;  thus  do 
urchins  tease  catamounts  caged  in  the  Zoo. 

For  a  second  Dolly's  eyes  glittered  with  a  look  of  in- 
credible greed;  in  another  they  wandered  from  the  de- 
sirable pile  with  amiable  indifference. 

"The  title,"  pursued  Lloyd  more  gravely,  now  that 
the  moment  of  surprise  was  past,  "is  Ashes  of  Roses." 

"Capital,"  nodded  Dolly,  with  delight. 

Enoch  put  down  the  manuscript,  and  stood  with  a 
palm  flat  on  the  pile.  "This  novel,  to  my  surprise,  I 
find  is  not  quite  so  harmless  as  the  rest.  And  yet  I  had 
not  intended  to  make  it — er — broader  or  spicier,  to 
quote  the  demands  of  Steele.  Somehow,  it  became  so  as 
I  wrote."  His  tone  was  calmly  discursive.  "  I  suppose 
Hyde  had  assumed  the  upper  hand."  He  closed  his  fist 
on  the  manuscript.  "  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
The  main  point  is  this:  by  to-night  Ashes  of  Roses  will  be 

286 


The   Supreme   Court 

— well — ashes  of  paper,  and  never  shall  Dolly  Cohen 
write  another  book." 

He  flung  his  head  back. 

Perhaps  the  very  pride  of  it  tempted  the  overhanging 
sword. 

Dolly  stood  up.  "  Oh,  very  well ;  drop  this  pot-boiling 
if  you  like.  It  is,  indeed,  a  low,  mean  business  for  one  so 
far  above  it . "  Her  tone  rose  shrill  and  bitingly  sarcastic . 
"So  low  that  surely  Enoch  Lloyd — " 

"S-sh!"  he  interrupted,  glancing  at  the  door;  "some 
one  will  hear  you." 

She  smiled  knowingly.  "There!  Do  you  see?  You 
don't  want  a  living  soul  to  know.  Of  course  not.  Can 
it  be  possible  that  Enoch  Lloyd,  author  of  that  beautiful 
work  The  Greatest  Good,  is  the — ahem! — authoress  of  that 
questionable  bit  of  trash  The  Flame  of  Folly,  and  that 
still  more  glowing  example  of  saffron  literature  The 
Altar  of  Love?"  Her  accents  went  hard  and  bitter;  her 
dark  eyes  flashed  a  threat.  "Yet,  impossible  as  it  may 
seem,  this  is  the  case."  She  stepped  close  to  him  and 
looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  keen  insolence.  "And 
every  one  shall  know  it!" 

Enoch  winced. 

"Yes,  every  one.  I  shall  write  it  up  for  Steele's  pa- 
per— The  Crowd.  He'll  forgive  me  quick  enough,  and 
such  a  sensation  would  double  the  sales  of  the  books  al- 
ready written.  Do  you  see?  Do  you  see?  Do  you  see? 
Isn't  it  better  to  give  me  this  manuscript  than  to  bear 
the  sting  and  ignominy  of  such  an  exposure?  Of  course, 
if  you  let  me  have  it " — she  nodded  at  the  neat, white  pile 
— "  I'll  keep  your  secret.  The  book  is  yours  and  mine." 

Lloyd  sank  to  his  chair.  The  last  words  were  each  a 
stab.  All  unknowingly,  she  had  terribly  wounded  him. 
The  words  had  been  Marion's  as  well — Marion's  when 
she  had  kissed  The  Greatest  Good.  "What  of  yourself?" 
he  asked,  dully. 

287 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

She  snapped  her  fingers.  "You  know  what  it  means 
when  I  snap  them — like  that.  It  means  I'm  desperate. 
It  means  that  if  I  die,  I  die  game." 

Lloyd  covered  the  manuscript  with  an  outstretched 
arm.  "Do  as  you  like,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "Do  your 
worst." 

She  tripped  lightly  to  the  door,  and,  turning  on  the 
threshold,  "Good-bye,"  she  waved,  airily.  "I'll  give 
you  till  ten  o'clock  to-night.  You'd  better  bring  it  with 
you."  She  started  down-stairs,  then  ran  back  again 
and  thrust  her  head  in.  "Bring  it  anyway,  and  we'll 
talk  the  matter  over.  This  is  my  birthday.  How  ap- 
propriate! Come,  won't  you?  We  can  manage  to  be 
alone.  There'll  be  a  fire  awaiting  you  in  the  queen's 
antechamber.  We'll  sit  and  chat,  and  then  you'll  either 
burn  the  book  or  give  it  to  me."  She  vanished. 

Lloyd  sat  watching  the  door  creak  open  and  shut  in 
the  draught  from  the  Moreaus'  bedroom.  His  restless  fin- 
gers beside  him  toyed  with  the  edges  of  the  typewritten 
sheets.  A  shadow  of  hatred  crept  under  the  light  of  his 
eyes.  In  his  heart  he  cursed  her.  Would  it  not  be  well 
to  go  there  and  take  it  and  burn  it  before  her  very 
eyes,  and  see  her  wince,  and  hurt  her  to  the  quick?  He 
was  hastened  on  by  inward  forces — the  unrecognizable 
powers  of  hell.  Now  that  pride  and  bravado  had  be- 
trayed to  her  the  presence  of  the  manuscript,  their  work 
was  done.  A  feeling  of  revenge  rushed  in  to  bear  it  to 
her. 

Long  he  sat  there,  watching  the  door  of  his  destiny 
swing  to  and  fro. 


IX 
The   Blood   oil   the   Gods 

A  I  ID  the  clamor  of  the  disguised  enemies,  that  sum- 
mons, which  yesterday  had  worked  such  wonders, 
returned  like  an  echo  to  call  him  back:  "Come  at  once. 
— Marion  Lee." 

The  commanding  invitation  had  gained  a  limitless 
range.  Transcending  the  obvious — the  specific  fact  of 
her  welcome — it  seemed  to  offer  him  the  perpetual  hos- 
pitality of  the  right.  Though  he  had  answered  it  once, 
it  seemed  to  demand  that  he  should  answer  it  again  and 
again. 

The  opposing  powers  were  marshalled  within  him, 
and  yet  he  considered  the  conflict  already  past.  Recog- 
nizing no  presence  save  that  of  the  fair,  white  hosts, 
which  he  deemed  unconditionally  victorious,  he  made  no 
allowance  for  the  foe's  guerilla  tactics,  nor  questioned 
the  integrity  of  their  truce.  His  mind,  like  that  of  a  gal- 
lant but  reckless  soldier,  galloped  free  in  the  open,  blind 
to  the  ambush  just  ahead.  On  the  course  of  his  retri- 
bution stood  a  fort  that  invited  his  eye.  There  would 
the  righteous  wrath  within  him  dismount  for  a  moment 
of  inspiration — there  would  its  flame  blow  hotter  at  the 
heart  of  the  fair,  white  hosts;  then  up  again  to  Pegasus, 
and  away  for  his  soul's  revenge. 

Was  it  not  at  Athene's  altar  Bellerophon  sprang  to  his 
steed?  Was  it  not  by  his  sword  the  Chimasra  died? 

So  says  the  myth,  human  experience  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  So  thought  the  world  in  its  youth, 
19  289 


The   Triumph   of    Life 

but  the  world,  grown  old,  knows  better.  It  protests  the 
Chimaera  is  still  unslain.  It  suggests  that  a  Pegasus 
worthy  the  stable  of  Zeus  will  safely  bear  its  rider  to  the 
sky.  The  hero  of  Corinth  should  have  started  at  once 
for  Olympus  and  ignored  the  Chimaera's  fate.  The  fable, 
if  to-day  revised,  might  imply  that  Pegasus  threw  the 
hot-head,  not  for  his  presumption  in  seeking  the  heav- 
ens, but  rather  for  the  attack,  no  less  presumptuous, 
which  prolonged  his  stay  below. 

But  Youth  is  ever  an  ancient.  In  his  heart  is  the 
youth  of  the  race.  Seldom  he  modifies  madness.  The 
blood  of  the  gods  flows  on. 

Enoch  tarried  at  the  altar  of  Athene  on  his  way  to  the 
Chimaera's  lair. 

Marion  was  alone.  At  the  moment  of  his  arrival  she 
stood  near  the  heavy,  round  table  before  the  fire,  and, 
lingering  over  a  crystal  bowl  of  tea-roses,  rearranged  its 
contents  merely  for  the  sake  of  touching  the  delicate 
petals  and  inhaling  deep  their  fragrant  breath.  Her 
head  was  bent  to  the  flowers  when  Timothy's  funereal 
voice  from  the  doorway  announced  the  unexpected  guest. 

Marion  looked  up  in  embarrassment.     "Mr.  Lloyd!" 

Enoch,  with  a  parcel  under  his  arm,  went  to  her  slowly, 
while  Timothy  withdrew  for  a  diagnosis  in  the  pantry, 
based  on  the  symptoms  of  sciatica  and  love. 

Marion's  cheeks  flushed  crimson.  "What  a  way  you 
have  of  appearing  unexpectedly,  Mr.  Lloyd!" 

He  smiled  and  deposited  his  package  on  the  table. 
"What  a  way  you  once  had  of  disappearing  unexpect- 
edly, Miss  Lee!" 

She  tossed  her  head  and  raised  her  hands  to  its  bur- 
nished gold  with  an  instinctive  motion  of  femininity. 
"If  I  were  vain,  I  should  be  annoyed."  Deftly  she  im- 
prisoned a  straying  strand,  a  lock  so  warm,  thought 

290 


The    Blood   of  the    Gods 

Enoch,  that  she  might  with  no  less  impunity  have  re- 
placed in  the  grate  an  ember  fallen  from  the  fire.  The 
gold  rippled  burning  through  her  fingers. 

He  lowered  his  gaze  to  her  eyes.  "Have  I  not  done 
more  to  please  your  vanity  than  to  vex  it?  I  should 
think  both  your  vanity  and  your  pride  must  be  satiated 
at  my  expense." 

Her  eyes  flashed  indignantly,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Instead,  she  fell  again  to  arranging  the  roses. 

Still  the  same  old  aloofness.  Still  the  same  invulner- 
able reserve.  He  had  looked  to  her  presence  for  inspira- 
tion at  the  beginning  of  this  crucial  night,  but  even  her 
presence  failed  to  help  him.  She  seemed  hard.  Her 
sheer,  fixed  goodness  antagonized  him.  She  had  no  feel- 
ing; of  course  she  could  never  understand. 

"Are  they  not?"  he  asked,  bitterly. 

Sinking  back  into  her  father's  arm-chair,  she  mentally 
repeated  Enoch's  indictment:  "  I  should  think  both  your 
vanity  and  your  pride  must  be  satiated  at  my  expense.' 
The  words  were  not  a  master's,  but  a  suppliant's.  They 
acknowledged  her  power.  With  inconsistent  harshness 
she  took  offence  at  his  humility.  A  Brunnhilde,  whose 
knight  must  cut  his  way  through  fire  to  obtain  her,  and 
whose  reserve  until  now  had  resented  his  masterful 
strokes,  she  suddenly,  in  her  lofty,  Spartan  way,  began 
to  resent  yet  more  the  words  that  suggested  weakness. 
Nevertheless,  his  indictment  troubled  her  deeply  —  so 
deeply  that  her  response  was  light.  "My  pride,  I  fear, 
is  insatiable,"  she  laughed,  girlishly;  "but  my  vanity  is 
satisfied,  now  that  I've  arranged  my  hair." 

Lloyd  bit  his  lip,  and  seated  himself  near  her.  There 
for  many  minutes  in  moody  silence  he  sat,  with  elbow 
on  knee  and  chin  in  hand,  staring  into  the  fire. 

She  studied  his  face.  Could  it  have  grown  older  in 
a  day?  What  had  so  suddenly  made  it  strained  and 
bitter? 

291 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

A  flood  of  sympathy  overwhelmed  the  Spartan.  The 
heart  of  the  woman  in  her  was  touched.  Rising,  she 
brought  him  a  cushion  and  told  him  he  would  be  more 
comfortable  leaning  back,  then  stirred  the  logs  to  a 
brighter  blaze,  and  turned  up  the  student  lamp  beside 
him.  What  did  she  know  of  real  life?  What  did  she 
know  of  his  experiences? 

Gradually  Enoch  relaxed.  He  was  sitting  at  the  fire 
of  the  fair,  white  hosts.  A  smile  stole  into  his  eyes. 
' '  Vesta  is  dead.  There's  another  goddess  of  the  hearth. ' ' 
The  smile  faded.  "  But  the  fire  of  ^Eneas,  that  men  once 
burned  to  Vesta,  was  never  for  a  moment  dim."  Then, 
before  she  even  had  time  to  wonder,  "Tell  me,"  he  asked, 
in  a  low  voice,  "what  would  you  answer  to  the  old  ques- 
tion :  Can  a  man  do  wrong  for  a  time  and  yet  remain  in- 
wardly unscathed?  After  it's  over  is  he  just  as  high,  do 
you  think,  just  as  strong?" 

Her  reply  was  instant  and  unequivocal,  though  a  mo- 
ment before  she  had  confessed  herself  ignorant  of  life. 
"No,  never — never!  The  man  who  lives  low  is  low." 

Enoch  paled.  "How  little  you  know  about  tempta- 
tions!" 

"Temptations?  Temptations  would  make  a  strong 
man  all  the  stronger.  He  would  resist."  She  paused, 
startled.  A  sudden,  horrid  suspicion  that  her  fire-cleav- 
ing knight,  the  author  of  The  Greatest  Good,  the  dreamer, 
the  giver  of  dreams,  was  weak  and  had  done  some 
unimaginable  wrong,  froze  her  heart.  His  beseeching 
glance  seemed  now  but  a  cry  for  mercy.  All  the  cruelty 
of  an  outraged  pagan  c'aity  flashed  in  her  eyes.  "If  a 
man — a  man — is  tempted  and  falls,  I  despise  him.  If  a 
poor  sinner  does  wrong,  he  has  my — pity!" 

The  tone  with  which  the  word  "pity  "  was  spoken  rang 
in  Lloyd's  soul  for  years. 

Little  did  Marion  think  that  the  tone  thus  condemn- 
ing sin  was  the  tone  of  her  pride's  own  evil.  Little  could 

292 


The   Blood   of  the   Gods 

she  guess  its  consequence.  Knowing  naught  of  life,  she 
had  dared  to  judge  and  convict  its  failures.  Yet  the 
Keeper  of  Life  forgives  them.  Perhaps  nothing  is  more 
dangerous  in  the  world  than  ignorant  virtue. 

Lloyd  looked  up  at  her  clear,  strong  face  with  a  hunt- 
ed expression.  One  of  his  hands  grasped  an  arm  of  his 
chair.  "Marion,  you  are  merciless."  Then,  in  an  in- 
stant, a  flame  of  anger  sprang  into  his  eyes.  "Where  is 
your  father?  He  will  understand.  I  will  tell  him  all." 

Marion  raised  her  brows  coldly.  "  He  is  dining  at  the 
Millennium  Club.  They  are  admitting  a  new  member. 
Father  says  you  must  join  soon." 

Enoch's  face  went  paler  perceptibly.  He  trembled. 
She  saw  the  tense  hand  near  her  tighten  its  grasp.  Its 
veins  were  rigid.  "What  do  you  know  of  life?"  he  cried. 
"Nothing;  and  nothing  of  love!  I  believe  you  could  not 
love.  The  power  is  not  in  you.  You  might  turn  into 
marble  as  you  sit  there,  and  be  placed  in  a  marble  niche, 
and  the  world  would  be  no  better,  no  worse.  I  might 
say  my  prayers  to  you  there,  and  light  candles  at  your 
shrine,  but  you  would  watch  my  soul  rush  down  to  hell, 
and  your  marble  hands  would  be  powerless  to  help  me." 

Marion  shivered;  her  eyes  grew  dim.  He  was  storm- 
ing the  very  citadel  of  her  pride. 

For  an  instant- he  paused,  then  suddenly,  with  a  wild 
impulse,  took  his  parcel  from  the  table  and  unwrapped  it. 
"  Listen!  You  shall  hear  what  some  people  dare  to  do — 
what  love  is,  what  life  is.  This  is  a  manuscript  I've  been 
reading  for — a  friend.  Most  of  it  is  trash,  but  there  are 
glimmers  of  talent."  His  fingers  fumbled  through  the 
pages  unsteadily.  "Here,  I  have  it.  The  chapter  is 
called  'An  Experiment.'  In  it  a  man  and  woman  stake 
everything  for  their  love.  They  fly  in  the  face  of  the 
world's  opinion,  in  the  face  of  duty — even  of  God.  Do 
you  think  you  would  have  the  courage  to  do  that?  No!" 
he  exclaimed,  rudely;  "you  would  run  away." 

293 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

Marion's  large,  gray  eyes  were  cold.  "What  right 
have  you  to — " 

"Listen,"  he  commanded,  "and  perhaps  your  heart 
will  begin  to  beat.  Is  this  trash — utter  rubbish?  Yes; 
but  there's  humanity  even  in  melodrama.  There  is  fire 
in  the  passion  of  a  shop-girl."  He  was  beside  himself 
with  trying  to  breathe  the  breath  of  life  into  this  mad- 
dening marble  statue. 

Feverishly  he  leaned  forward  and  held  the  pages  under 
the  light.  Passage  after  passage  he  read  aloud  with  ris- 
ing intensity. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up.  "  Read  that  last  part  again." 

He  did  so.  The  sentence  that  had  impressed  her  was 
this:  "Love  is  the  risking  of  eternity." 

"How  different,"  she  said,  "from  what  you  wrote  of 
love  in  The  Greatest  Good!  '  Love,'  you  said, '  is  the  capit- 
ulation of  Heaven.'" 

He  did  not  look  up.     His  eyes  were  haunted. 

"There  was  so  much  certainty,"  said  Marion,  "in  your 
view.  It  almost  seems  as  though  the  author  of  this  were 
purposely  distorting  your  sentiments.  Do  you  suppose 
he  can  possibly — " 

"  Listen,"  interrupted  Enoch,  unable  to  bear  the  tort- 
ure she  was  unconsciously  inflicting;  "this  man  knows." 
He  read  wildly  to  the  end. 

From  time  to  time  he  could  hear  the  sound  of  her 
breathing,  first  slow,  then  quicker  and  quicker  drawn, 
till,  at  last,  she  sprang  up  outraged  before  him. 

"That  is  love,"  he  whispered,  almost  fearfully;  "that 
is  life!"  His  face  was  death- white;  his  gaze  burned  into 
hers. 

Marion  steeled  herself  against  him.  The  passion  of 
the  words  he  had  read  stirred  in  her  depths.  The  pas- 
sion of  his  voice  echoed  through  her.  Nevertheless,  she 
maintained  a  frigid  composure.  The  chapter,  being  evil, 
had  failed  to  strike  the  key-note  of  her  heart.  It  had 

294 


The   Blood  of  the    Gods 

only  terrified  her  innocence.  "This  is  a  wicked  book," 
she  said,  trembling.  "How  could  you  have  read  it  to 
me?  How  could  you?" 

Enoch's  manuscript  slipped  to  the  floor.  Visibly 
trembling,  he  stood  up  and  faced  her.  The  Dolly  Cohen 
in  him  was  face  to  face  with  the  Enoch  Llcyd.  Marion, 
personifying  his  best  self,  had  suddenly  challenged  his 
worst.  The  moment  of  this  meeting — this  meeting  face 
to  face  of  elemental  forces  —  carried  him  away.  He 
stood  before  his  judge,  and  the  hard,  merciless  gaze  of 
that  righteous  mentor  cut  him  to  the  quick.  So  far  as 
he  personally  was  concerned  she  still  remained  the  mar- 
ble statue.  He  had  not  succeeded  in  awakening  her  to 
his  own  turbulent  good-and-bad  vitality.  The  failure 
drove  him  to  madness.  His  heart  moaned  for  the  mas- 
tery; his  eyes  were  blue  flames. 

She  was  moving  slowly  away,  like  one  in  a  dream.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  an  impulse  of  primitive  savagery  inspired 
him.  It  possessed  him  body  and  soul. 

She  was  moving  away.  .  .  . 

The  impulse  told.  Without  a  word  he  rushed  for- 
ward and  flung  his  arms  about  her  in  a  wild  hold,  and 
kissed  her  full  on  the  lips.  "This  is  love,"  he  whis- 
pered, insanely;  "and  this — and  this!" 

Releasing  her,  he  fell  back  a  step  and  waited. 

She  swayed  palpitant  before  him  —  a  living  flame. 
The  fire  seemed  to  have  leaped  across  the  hearth  and 
wrapped  her  in  its  folds.  She  swayed  quivering  before 
him  —  a  flame  in  a  wind.  Her  figure  burned.  The 
statue  was  flesh  and  blood.  The  key-note  of  her  heart, 
in  tune  to  him,  and  him  only — the  key-note  of  her  secret 
heart  in  tune  to  the  love  of  him — had  been  struck  with 
resonant  intensity.  And  yet  the  swelling  echo  of  the 
note  seemed  to  toll  the  knell  of  her  girlhood. 

Desperately  she  fought  against  her  heart  for  self-con- 
trol. Her  voice  at  first  was  a  lov\r  monotone.  "Now, 

295 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

go.  You  have  succeeded.  You  have  called  me  into  life 
— yes,  but  I  hate  you.  You  have  called  me  into  life  and 
hate,  not  into  love.  Now,  go." 

Her  distracted  glance  evaded  his  with  a  wild  bitter- 
ness. She  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  steadied  her- 
self against  the  mantel.  Suddenly  a  flood  of  tears  burst 
from  her  eyes,  and  all  he  could  hear  was,  "Father! 
Father!"  She  turned  and  buried  her  face  in  her  arm, 
upraised  to  the  mantel-shelf.  Her  shoulders  were  con- 
vulsed with  weeping. 

Awe-struck,  Lloyd  fell  to  his  knees.  "Marion,  Mar- 
ion; what  have  I  done?  Forgive  me,  Marion."  He 
caught  the  hem  of  her  dress  and  kissed  it  reverently. 
"My  marble  saint,  my  goddess,  give  me  back  the  touch 
of  your  hand,  the  sure,  cool  touch  of  your  goodness.  Oh, 
God,  how  it  has  helped  me!"  He  clasped  the  hand  at 
her  side,  and  bowed  his  forehead  to  it. 

For  the  moment  the  heat  and  light  of  the  fire  seemed 
to  expand  about  them,  till  they  stood  in  the  heart  of  its 
burning.  The  silence  sobbed  in  glowing  beats.  Then 
suddenly  an  eternity  passed  with  the  deep  indrawing  of 
a  breath,  and  Marion — a  vanishing  flame — had  left  him. 

Catching  up  his  manuscript,  and  its  paper  covering, 
Lloyd  rushed  headlong  down  to  the  street. 

The  blood  of  the  gods  flows  on. 


X 

The   Course  of  the   Incubus 

ENOCH  paused  and  mechanically  tied  up  his  manu- 
script in  its  brown  wrapper.  Then,  parcel  under 
arm  and  head  bent,  he  started  slowly  up  the  avenue. 
Once  more  the  look  of  life  had  changed.  He  saw  noth- 
ing clearly,  nor  were  his  feelings  defined.  Though  ex- 
alted, with  an  intense,  passionate  exaltation,  never  ex- 
perienced before,  he  hung  his  head,  and  his  step  was  slow. 
Though  he  felt  in  a  way  ennobled,  he  walked  as  if  abased 
by  disturbing  convictions.  Though  he  was  going  to  the 
other  woman  for  revenge,  and  to  make  an  end  of  it  all, 
he  was  going  doggedly,  no  longer  on  fire  with  impatience. 

Thus  absorbed,  he  gave  no  heed  to  a  sound  of  quick 
footsteps  behind  him  till  suddenly  a  hand  clapped  him 
sharply  on  the  shoulder,  and  a  voice,  cold  as  the  night, 
proclaimed:  "Mr.  Lloyd,  you  are  my  prisoner." 

The  captive,  white  as  a  murderer  caught  in  the  act, 
halted  and  turned. 

A  pair  of  rimless  glasses,  reflecting  the  street-light  in 
two  keen  little  dancing  spots,  looked  up  into  his  dis- 
tracted eyes.  A  cackle  of  mischief  betrayed  impish  de- 
light in  his  momentary  discomfiture. 

"Hallo,  Cutty,"  he  said,  relaxing.  Then,  with  a  sort 
of  quick,  shamefaced  generosity:  "I  suppose  I  ought — " 
He  paused. 

Cuthbert  thrust  an  arm  in  his.  Together  they  walked 
up  the  avenue.  "Oh,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  I've 
buried  the  hatchet.  Gad!  Enoch,  you  look  like  a  felon 

297 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

— head  down,  step  a  slink" — he  peered  around  at  the 
parcel  held  close  to  the  pit  of  Lloyd's  free  arm — "step  a 
slink,  and  the  graft  on  you." 

Enoch  laughed  shortly.  "Where  did  you  come 
from?" 

Cuthbert  chuckled.  "From  the  Sign  of  the  Sleuth, 
of  course,  in  Mulberry  Street,  hot  on  your  trail." 

Lloyd  mirthlessly  muttered  something  disconnected. 
It  sounded  like,  "As  usual  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  my  trail." 

Cuthbert  withdrew  his  hand.  "No;  I  stopped  at  the 
Lees'  for  the  venerable  Stephen.  There's  something  go- 
ing on  at  the  Millennium  Club  this  evening,  but  he's  gone 
already.  Let's  see;  what.'s  your  residence?  Bristol,  isn't 
it?  Still  Bristol,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  still  Bristol." 

"That's  good.  Come  along.  I  can  take  you  in.  I 
want  you  to  meet  the  crowd.  You'd  better  let  Mr.  Lee 
propose  you  for  membership.  I'll  second  you.  He  was 
speaking  of  it  the  other  day.  There  won't  be  any  ques- 
tion. They  are  all  talking  about  The  Greatest  Good.  Of 
course,  they  say  it's  impractical, but  the  right  stuff.  They 
want  men  who  have  at  heart  the  interests  of  the  best  in 
everything.  .Lord!  Of  course  they're  not  perfect;  but 
this  much  I  do  believe:  not  one  of  us  up  there,  not  a 
single  member  of  the  Millennium  Club,  is  a  charlatan. 
They're  all  kinds,  men  of  all  professions — great  doctors, 
great  authors,  great  preachers,  great  painters,  profs 
from  Columbia,  editors  from  Park  Row,  sociologists 
from  the  University  Settlement.  And  there  are  lots 
who  aren't  great  but  will  be,  and  others  who  aren't  and 
won't  be — Cuthbert  Morton,  for  example.  But  we're  all 
dead  against  the  spirit  of  sham,  the  growing  element  of 
chicanery.  We're  dead  against  the  lust  for  notorie- 
ty, art  cant,  affected  intellectuality,  chattering  reform, 
charity  that's  nothing  but  talk,  philanthropy  with  a 
wink,  civics  with  a  wire  to  pull — et  cetera.  We're  not 

298 


The    Course   of  the   Incubus 

cheap,  and  we  are  sincere.  That's  the  Millennium  Club 
in  a  nutshell." 

He  thrust  his  arm  in  Lloyd's  again.  "And  we  want 
you  with  us." 

So  twittered  the  voice  at  Enoch's  elbow  till  the  bearer 
of  the  incubus  began  to  stagger  in  spirit  beneath  its 
weight.  Cuthbert  was  hustling  him  along  to  the  Millen- 
nium Club.  The  nervous  hand  on  his  arm  seemed  com- 
pellent,  with  a  kind  of  jerky  power  like  the  piston-rod  of 
a  donkey-engine.  At  first  Enoch  offered  no  objection. 
Doubtless,  the  mere  atmosphere  of  such  a  club-house 
would  afford  him  the  encouragement  and  inspiration 
he  longed  for.  Moreover,  deep  and  unvoiced  within 
him  lurked  the  hope  of  a  gratifying  welcome — a  flatter- 
ing welcome,  which  possibly  might  reward  a  visit  to  the 
house  of  his  acknowledged  peers,  and  quiet  the  haunt- 
ing dismissal  of  Marion's  last  words.  Yet,  what  right 
had  he  to  mingle  with  crusaders  against  chicanery,  an- 
tagonists of  sham?  "We  are  not  cheap,  and  we  are 
sincere."  Cuthbert 's  pithy  assertion  of  integrity  called 
forth  in  Lloyd's  mind  a  similarly  terse  though  unspoken 
statement  of  fact,  a  declaration  bitter,  antithetical,  self- 
denunciatory,  and  quite  as  true.  "  I  am  cheap,  and  I'm 
not  sincere." 

He  hugged  the  parcel  to  his  side.  His  incubus  grew 
heavy  as  lead.  He  was  freighted  with  the  entire  bur- 
den of  his  own  misdeeds.  Seemingly,  they  had  assumed 
material  form;  they  had  become  an  actual,  concrete  ob- 
ject, a  thing,  and  the  thing  was  a  bundle  of  manuscript 
hugged  to  his  armpit.  What  right  had  he  to  take  it 
within  the  doors  of  the  Millennium  Club  ?  If  only  he  could 
have  slipped  away  for  a  moment  and  hidden  or  destroyed 
it,  then  with  what  lightness  and  ease  of  heart  he  might 
have  rejoined  his  friend  and  met  his  peers.  His  eyes 
wandered  ahead  to  the  lighted  corners  of  side  streets,  as 
though  he  actually  contemplated  a  sudden  swerve.  He 

299 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

kept  dully  to  the  avenue,  block  after  block,  answering  in 
monosyllables  the  running  fire  with  which  Cuthbert  at  a 
venture  attacked  him.  Manifestly,  escape  was  impossi- 
ble. He  would  put  on  a  bold  front  and  go  to  the  club. 
Suppose  the  manuscript  did  still  exist,  suppose  the  thing 
in  his  arm  had  not  yet  been  destroyed,  what  of  that? 
The  self  it  stood  for  was  annihilated.  This  incubus,  one 
might  have  said,  was  no  more  than  the  corpse  of  his 
lower  self.  Later,  he  would  bury  it  without  ado,  or  cre- 
mate it,  to  be  exact,  and  the  devil  was  welcome  to  its 
ashes.  Thus  his  mind  took  a  lighter,  travestical  turn, 
and  began  to  caricature  the  figments  of  its  fancy.  The 
strain  had  told.  Though  always  right  at  heart,  free  and 
big  of  life,  he  had  never  learned  the  meaning  of  the  verb 
"endure."  If  the  attack  had  been  swift  and  sharp,  bold 
and  open,  impulse  could  have  met  it  and  repulsed  the 
enemy.  To  withstand  a  siege  he  was  little  fitted.  Valor 
is  not  endurance.  The  arrows  of  impulse  often  over- 
shoot the  mark.  They  break  and  lie  wasted,  useless. 
Youth  pulls  his  bow  at  random;  his  quiver  is  quickly 
empty.  Alack,  what  then?  No  fort  of  retreat  is  behind 
him;  his  castle  is  in  the  air.  There  is  naught  for  it  now 
but  to  joke  and  parley  with  the  enemy,  inwardly  fearing 
them,  outwardly  bantering  them  with  fine  top-loftiness, 
humor,  and  an  air. 

Lloyd's  animation  increased.  He  swung  along  by  the 
side  of  his  jerky,  short-gaited  companion  with  growing 
ease.  The  metaphor  of  the  dead  self  and  the  corpse  of 
it  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  brown  paper  had  lightened  his 
mood.  Now,  as  usual,  a  trick  of  dabbling  in  analogy  had 
come  to  his  rescue.  Even  his  belief  in  immortality,  though 
firm,  was  based  on  a  simile.  Look  at  a  fact  he  could  not, 
and  yet  to  some  glowing  figure  of  speech  he  would  lend 
the  ear  of  his  soul.  In  a  way  he  had  never  outgrown  the 
fairyland  of  his  childhood.  He  dwelt  in  a  realm  of  alle- 
gory. Only  by  calling  his  higher  self  Jekyll,  his  lower 

300 


The   Course   of  the   Incubus 

Hyde,  had  he  presented  the  case  clearly  to  his  under- 
standing. Only  by  calling  this  bundle  the  corpse  of 
Hyde,  and  himself  more  fortunate  than  Jekyll  in  being 
alive  to  bury  it,  did  he  find  courage  to  visit  the  Millen- 
nium Club. 

Meanwhile  a  deep  consciousness  of  change  swept  like  a 
swift  undercurrent  through  his  being.  That  eternal  mo- 
ment by  the  fire  with  Marion  had  become  his  life.  His 
love  had  flowered  as  though  by  an  accident,  as  though  by 
the  stroke  of  a  sudden  exception,  a  spontaneous  impulse 
towards  fruition,  transcending  the  law  of  gradual  growth. 
Again  and  again  her  name  rang  in  his  depths.  Marion! 
Marion!  Again  and  again  he  relived  that  undying  mo- 
ment. But  no  less  often  her  avowal  of  hatred  dulled  the 
triumphant  song.  Did  she  hate  him?  Had  he  really 
awakened  her  to  hate  instead  of  love?  No;  a  thousand 
times,  no.  Something  assured  him  he  had  not  lost  her, 
and  yet  his  mind  was  not  perplexing  itself  with  reasons. 
He  never  analyzed  circumstance  in  the  logical  sense.  He 
was  far  too  elemental  to  be  introspective  for  more  than 
a  moment  at  a  time,  and  now,  as  so  often  before,  his 
volatile  temperament  enabled  him  soon  to  assume  a  new 
mood,  and  on  the  surface  lose  himself  amid  new  sur- 
roundings. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  and  Cuthbert  entered  the 
home  of  the  Millennium  Club.  The  house  of  that  long  and 
deservedly  famous  association  was  by  no  means  of  a  re- 
cent build,  nor  were  the  rooms  luxuriously  furnished. 
Partly  on  this  account  the  domain  of  the  Millennium  was, 
as  Stephen  Lee,  its  president,  took  pleasure  in  observing, 
"one  of  the  clubbiest  clubs  in  existence."  "Even  halls 
of  fame,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "may  now  and  then  open 
to  rooms  of  comfort." 

On  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  present  hall,  which  was 
long,  heavily  carpeted,  plainly  papered,  and  lined  with 
framed  photographs  of  former  members,  Enoch  gave  his 

301 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

coat  and  hat  to  the  door-boy,  then,  with  a  slight  misgiv- 
ing, the  corpse  of  Hyde.  While  Cuthbert  was  register- 
ing his  companion's  name  in  the  guest-book,  Enoch  hov- 
ered near  the  walls.  From  these  looked  down  many  old, 
familiar  faces  of  America's  great  men  gone.  The  photo- 
graphs, large  and  small,  all  sizes,  and  in  all  degrees  of 
fading,  were  those  of  the  illustrious  in  varied  walks. 
Here  and  there,  framed  in  velvet  and  leather,  an  old 
daguerrotype,  dim  and  shadowy,  suggested  the  picture 
of  a  ghost.  This,  in  a  pleasing  sense,  was,  indeed,  a  hall 
of  fame.  Here,  instead  of  a  formal  public  exhibit,  was 
offered  an  easy  glimpse  at  greatness,  as  if  those  of  to-day 
were  closely  acquainted,  either  by  actual  reminiscence 
or  the  more  intangible  but  no  less  intimate  relationship 
of  intellectual  and  psychical  fellowship,  with  personal- 
ities of  the  distinguished  dead.  Here  might  genius 
browse  among  its  peers.  Here  might  a  member  pause 
as  though  in  company  with  fellow-members,  yet  alive. 
Here  the  kind  ghosts  were  at  their  ease — congenial  spir- 
its in  a  fitting  home.  Happily  the  collection  hung  at 
random,  much  as  these  men  had  mingled  in  their  lives. 
Actors,  authors,  painters,  statesmen,  doctors,  clergy- 
men, poets,  all  were  silently  assembled,  while  some  with 
a  touch  of  intimacy  in  the  form  of  an  autograph  or  a 
thumb-nail  sketch,  a  scrap  of  verse  or  a  letter  framed 
beside  them,  afforded,  as  it  were,  a  peep  at  their  natures 
in  being. 

"Peace  to  their  ashes,"  said  Cuthbert,  joining  Enoch. 
"Come  in  now  and  meet  a  few  of  their  successors." 

As  the  two  sauntered  towards  a  distant  door,  another 
opened,  and  several  members  came  into  the  hall  from  the 
dining-room.  One  of  them  stopped  to  speak  to  Morton. 
Enoch,  aside,  glanced  at  the  others.  Among  these  was 
Parker,  the  dramatist,  his  fellow -lodger  of  the  Wash- 
ington Hotel.  Another,  with  close-cut,  reddish  hair  and 
a  net- work  of  wrinkles,  was  recognizable  as  an  author 

302 


The   Course   of   the   Incubus 

whose  work  had  lightened  care  the  country  over.  Seem- 
ingly this  man  had  been  charged  by  a  benign  Providence 
with  the  keeping  alive  of  laughter  on  an  aging  earth. 
Whatever  had  been  his  own  individual  fate,  he  had  held 
aloft  his  lamp  of  humor  to  the  world. 

The  face  of  a  third,  romantic,  dark-bearded,  striking, 
was  that  of  a  well-known  traveller  whose  books  and 
lectures,  glowing  with  actual  adventure,  yet  modestly 
indifferent  to  the  inevitable  "  I  "  so  frequently  marring 
anecdote,  afforded  many  an  instructive  and  thrilling 
glimpse  at  the  still  unerased  blots  of  savagery  that  spot 
the  map  of  Christendom. 

Enoch  gazed  after  the  backs  of  the  three  till  they  had 
disappeared  through  the  doorway  of  a  small  billiard- 
room. 

"What's  up?"  he  heard  Morton  asking. 

"Oh,"  replied  the  other,  "we've  just  admitted  young 
Pritchard,  the  sculptor.  He's  the  man  who  did  'The 
Pioneer.'  The  statue  was  finished  a  month  ago.  It's 
the  gift  of  J.  M.  Crawford,  the  Pittsburg  millionaire,  to 
a  Western  university." 

"Hum;  is  it  good?" 

"Yes.  They  say  the  conception  is  excellent.  The 
principal  figure  is  that  of  a  man.  Over  his  shoulder  he 
carries  a  pick-axe,  with  the  other  hand  he  leads  a  child. 
But  the  pose  is  the  thing.  I've  seen  a  photograph.  It 
fairly  speaks  of  a  virgin  country.  The  man  has  come 
upon  a  world  of  infinite  possibilities.  He  seems  to  be 
thrilled  with  eagerness  to  begin.  He  is  starting  forward 
on  fire  with  hope  and  freedom,  an  indomitable  interloper, 
and  his  heavy  hand,  in  cruel  forgetfulness,  drags  after  him 
the  frightened  child.  I  tell  you,  this  young  Pritchard 
promises  well.  He's  big;  no  question  about  it.  Well, 
I'll  see  you  later.  There  go  the  billiard-balls.  Parker 
and  the  rest  are  waiting."  With  which  the  speaker,  a 
middle-aged,  smooth-faced  man,  nervous  energy  in  ev- 

303 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

ery  motion,  cast  a  bright,  inquiring  glance  at  Enoch,  and 
left  them  for  the  game. 

"That,"  whispered  Cuthbert,  "is  Joseph  Stillman. 
He's  done  as  much,  I  suppose,  for  the  East  Side  as  any 
one.  He  lives  there." 

Enoch  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Like  the  pioneer,  he 
has  come,  I  should  imagine,  on  a  world  of  infinite  possi- 
bilities." 

"Yes;  and  the  rest  of  the  civicists  lag  behind  him, 
scared  as  the  child.  But  he  drags  them  on.  Come  into 
the  library.  I  can't  show  you  the  dining-room  now. 
It's  probably  crowded.  It's  a  tradition  of  the  club  that 
whenever  a  man's  admitted,  the  honor  done  him  and  the 
honor  he  does  us  shall  be  appropriately  marked.  There's 
always  a  dinner,  and  the  president,  Stephen  Lee,  offers 
a  short  toast  of  election,  after  which  the  new  member  is 
expected  to  respond.  Poor  young  Pritchard!  He  was 
probably  trembling  in  his  boots.  He's  modest  as  a  girl, 
they  tell  me.  Well,  you  will  be  put  to  it  soon,  I  hope, 
and  when  your  dinner  comes  off  I'll  be  here.  You  may 
depend  on  that.  Here,  be  comfortable;  have  a  cigar." 

They  seated  themselves  in  the  library,  a  long  room 
papered  maroon,  lined  with  book-shelves,  and  furnished 
with  leather  arm-chairs,  lounges,  and  a  massive,  rectan- 
gular centre- table,  piled  with  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines. Against  the  chimney  hung  a  large  portrait  of  yet 
another  pioneer,  one  of  the  first  poets — perhaps  the  first, 
and  as  yet  the  last — to  sing  the  Western  Spirit.  With 
his  rakish  felt  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  in  vagabond 
negligence,  and  his  shirt  wide  open  at  the  throat,  he 
looked  down  upon  Lloyd  with  a  bold,  free  gaze,  as  though 
offering  once  again  his  big,  reckless,  rough-and-ready 
comradeship  to  any  who,  like  himself,  swung  along  on 
the  Open  Road. 

For  a  time  the  two  talked  of  this  one  and  others,  and  of 
literature  in  general,  and  of  certain  books  in  particular; 

3°4 


The  Course  of  the  Incubus 

of  the  arts  and  the  sciences,  and  men  who  work.  For  an 
hour  they  sat  there  in  a  corner  of  the  world's  workshop, 
the  youthful  author  now  and  then  losing  himself  in  the 
chat  of  the  toil,  and  the  critic,  at  a  venture,  bringing  him 
back  with  covert  acuteness  by  innocently  summoning  the 
ghosts  of  the  True  and  Great — ghosts,  praise  Heaven, 
unlayable — while  pithily,  though  not  with  enough  point 
to  arouse  suspicion,  he  made  them  exemplars,  each,  so  to 
speak,  a  separate,  cruel  conscience  to  the  Angel  of  the 
trailing  wing. 

Thus,  with  an  incessant  twitter  and  chirrup,  the  often- 
despised,  often-admired  little  Cutty,  himself  at  present 
the  crudest  conscience  of  all,  succeeded,  by  a  peculiar 
habit  of  mental  pricking  and  pinching,  in  applying  a 
kind  of  counter-irritant  close  to  the  other's  wound.  For 
instance,  with  a  nod  at  the  wayfarer  against  the  chim- 
ney: "Well,"  he  concluded,  after  an  easy  gossip,  "they 
may  carp  as  they  will.  He  was  a  man  of  a  single  pur- 
pose, a  single  heart.  That  is  not  to  be  denied,  at  any 
rate." 

"Yes;  but  he  went  too  far,"  objected  Enoch,  glad  of  a 
chance  to  cavil. 

' '  Too  far  ?  Perhaps ;  but  he  went  too  far — in  a  straight 
line."  Then,  quickly:  "Oh,  the  deuce!  Have  a  drink. 
I  forgot,"  added  the  chary  prodder,  and  avoided  any 
further  suggestive  allusions  long  enough  to  appear  de- 
void of  guile. 

At  first  this  cauterization  nettled  the  patient  almost 
beyond  endurance,  but  soon  it  proved  beneficial  to  the 
sore.  It  had  a  tonic  effect.  As  they  talked,  Lloyd  took 
new  heart.  The  capacity  to  be  true  and  great  had  not 
been  forfeited.  The  big,  free  life  of  the  Open  Road  still 
throbbed  in  his  veins.  The  heat  of  indomitable  vitality 
was  yet  in  his  heart.  He,  too,  looked  out  on  a  world  of 
infinite  possibilities.  He,  too,  might  drag  men  after  him, 
as  the  pioneer  was  dragging  the  child.  The  fire  which 
20  305 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

was,  in  fact,  the  very  opposite  of  decadence — the  fire  of 
life — had  not  been  extinguished  in  his  soul.  True,  it  had 
sunk  for  a  time  and  smouldered,  but  now  once  more 
the  flame  that  had  sprung  up  again  at  the  hearth  with 
Marion  leaped  high  in  him,  fanned  by  the  nervous  en- 
ergy of  Cuthbert. 

When  at  last  the  dining-room  was  empty  in  favor  of 
the  library,  he  felt  almost  at  home  among  the  Millen- 
nium's members.  Despite  their  indisputable  attain- 
ments, they  appeared  to  be,  with  few  exceptions,  about 
as  genial  and  unaffected  a  company  as  any  man  could 
wish  to  know.  Of  course,  they  were  not  immune  to 
satire.  Of  course,  the  best-known  had  been  caricatured 
and  repeatedly  lampooned,  thanks  to  the  time-honored 
right  of  the  public  to  laugh  at  the  friends  it  loves.  There 
was  nothing  particularly  striking  about  them,  nothing  to 
start  at,  little  to  surprise  the  eye  and  ear.  Some  looked 
utterly  commonplace,  and  the  jokes  of  many  were  futile 
as  could  be.  Your  genuine  lion  gambols  like  a  lamb; 
he  wishes  his  skin  were  woolly.  Nevertheless,  now  and 
then,  for  all  their  simple,  easy  naturalness,  the  lion 
showed.  A  quick,  sudden  witticism,  a  low-drawled  quip 
at  a  fellow-member,  a  gesture,  a  mimic  pose,  an  earnest 
word,  a  momentary  silence,  and  the  true  spirit  of  one  and 
another  flashed  an  impression  on  Enoch's  mind.  If  any 
appeared  unusual,  it  was  because  the  self  in  him  would 
out.  What  they  were,  they  were;  what  they  were  not, 
they  were  not. 

It  did  Lloyd  good  to  be  there.  Not  that  it  flattered 
his  vanity  much — so  few  even  mentioned  his  work — but 
because  he  seemed  to  be  welcome,  quite  like  one  of  them- 
selves. 

Well  did  the  portrait  of  the  bare-chested  poet — that 
vigorous  prophet  against  the  chimney  —  preside  over 
groups  like  these.  And  yet  they  were  mostly  city  men — 
men  of  the  stress  and  strain — the  central  currents  of 

306 


The   Course   of  the    Incubus 

progress.  The  only  open  road  they  knew  was  within 
themselves.  The  man  up  there  had  sung  of  the  shapes 
that  arise ;  the  men  below  him  lived  among  shapes  that 
had  risen.  Many,  of  course,  had  failed  in  a  worldly 
sense,  but  their  faces  bespoke  the  virility  of  endeavor. 
Charlie  Parker,  the  dramatist,  for  instance,  had  matched 
himself  against  the  theatrical  trust,  and  was  fighting  it 
tooth  and  nail  with  a  very  few  managers  and  critics 
— Cuthbert  Morton  foremost  among  the  latter — while 
Stephen  Lee,  for  another  instance,  struggled  on,  as  we 
know,  against  the  invasion  of  that  .which  he  considered 
a  too-commercial  system. 

At  the  moment  when  Lloyd  regarded  these  two  he 
was  in  a  circle  with  Morton  and  several  others,  Mr.  Lee 
and  Parker,  who  had  met  in  the  hall,  having  just  entered. 
Parker  had  finished  the  game  at  billiards;  Mr.  Lee,  the 
pleasant  formalities  of  the  toast.  Together  they  joined 
the  newly  admitted  sculptor,  young  Pritchard,  a  slim 
stripling,  downy -lipped,  fragile,  soft -skinned,  yet  pos- 
sessed withal  of  an  indefinable  power.  Together  they 
joined  him  and  put  him  at  ease,  while  Mr.  Lee,  having 
caught  sight  of  Lloyd,  led  the  two  towards  the  corner 
circle. 

Enoch  and  Cuthbert  rose  to  meet  him. 

"How  are  you,  Lloyd?  How  do  you  do,  Morton? 
I'm  glad  you  brought  him.  We'll  have  another  dinner 
of  admission  soon.  That  reminds  me,  Lloyd — I'd  like  to 
propose  your  name." 

"Yes,"  said  Cuthbert,  "and  I  will  second  it." 

Enoch  flushed.  "You  are  both  very  good,"  he  began, 
and  hesitated.  Then,  quickly,  "I  cannot  thank  you 
enough,"  assented  Impulse,  in  a  low,  fervent  voice.  "To 
become  a  member  of  the  Millennium  Club  has  been  one 
of  my  brightest  hopes." 

Mr.  Lee  nodded,  smiling,  and  turned  to  Parker.  "I 
want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Lloyd." 

3°7 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

The  two  shook  hands.  "  We  live  in  the  same  kennel," 
observed  the  bald-headed  dramatist,  with  easy  greeting. 

"Yes,"  chirped  Cuthbert,  "you  gave  me  Lloyd's  ad- 
dress." 

"So  I  did.  It's  funny,  Mr.  Lloyd  and  I  haven't  met 
before;  but  that's  Gotham  all  over.  Three  men  in  a  tub 
wouldn't  know  one  another  in  this  metropolis." 

Mr.  Lee  took  the  sculptor  by  the  elbow.  "Mr.  Lloyd, 
this  is  Mr.  Pritchard.  I've  long  wanted  you  to  meet. 
You're  two  of  a  kind,  a  fine  pair  of  angels,  on  my  word — 
each  quite  as  mad  as  Daedalus — but  your  wings  haven't 
melted  off.  Come,  Parker,  tell  me  about  the  Octopean 
struggle."  So  saying,  he  led  aside  the  dramatist,  while 
coffee  and  cordials  were  being  passed.  Save  for  the  pub- 
lisher and  Parker,  who  stood  near  the  centre-table,  the 
members  were  idling  about  in  separate  groups,  and  many 
had  departed.  Pritchard,  scarcely  with  pioneer  bold- 
ness, had  obliterated  himself  as  far  as  possible,  and  in 
subdued  tones  was  now  modestly  discussing  Praxiteles 
with  a  gray-maned  professor  of  Greek  from  Columbia 
University.  The  circle  had  further  been  augmented  by 
the  black-bearded  traveller  and  the  humorist,  the  former 
of  whom,  having  succumbed  to  the  persistent  efforts  of 
Cuthbert,  was  spinning  a  yarn  to  his  cigar  smoke  con- 
cerning the  monastics  of  Thibet.  Meanwhile,  the  guard- 
ian of  laughter,  keeping  up  a  running  commentary, 
sprinkled  spice  on  the  eagerly  devoured  morsels  of  ex- 
ploit. 

Now  and  again  Enoch  glanced  at  the  two  who  stood 
near  the  centre-table.  They  were  talking  in  low,  serious 
tones,  this  pair  of  modern  crusaders,  and  Mr.  Lee's  apple 
cheeks  glowed,  and  so  did  the  bald  spot  of  Parker.  Pretty 
crusaders  these.  A  bald  head  instead  of  a  helmet,  a  pair 
of  apple  cheeks  and  squirrel  eyes  instead  of  a  visor, 
ominously  drawn.  But  Enoch,  forgetting  the  monastics 
of  Thibet,  only  smiled  good-humoredly.  It  made  no  dif- 

308 


The   Course    of  the    Incubus 

ference.  He  saw  life  deeper  now.  Externals,  of  course, 
were  altered,  but  still  the  hosts  of  the  right  moved  on. 
All  that  he  had  to  do  was  to  bury  his  incubus,  then  he 
could  join  that  resolute  throng.  Already  he  had  decided 
to  cremate  the  thing,  to  burn  it  alone  with  fate.  The 
Chimasra  might  prowl  unslain.  He  now  felt  too  well  con- 
tented to  seek  revenge.  From  here  he  would  go  straight 
home  and  destroy  the  manuscript  this  very  evening. 
Let  the  woman  do  her  worst.  Let  her  expose  him.  In 
time  he  could  live  it  down.  He  would  confess  the  thing 
like  a  man  to  Stephen  Lee,  and  even  to  Cuthbert,  and 
even — yes,  even  to  Marion;  then  give  the  good  in  him 
free  rein.  Yes ;  he  would  toil  for  years,  if  need  be,  in  pur- 
suing his  highest  aim.  Few  would  know  save  those  he 
told.  His  name  was  obscure,  anyway.  He  had  little  or 
nothing  to  lose,  and  all  to  gain.  Perhaps  these  members 
of  the  Millennium  Club  would — well,  perhaps  they  would 
lay  his  name  on  the  table,  but  in  the  end  he  would  prove 
worthy  of  admission.  And,  besides,  the  woman  might 
hesitate  to  expose  him,  since  by  doing  so  she  would 
ruin  herself.  If  she  forbore  not  even  the  sting  of  a  tem- 
porary stigma  would  leave  its  mark. 

His  glance  kept  returning  to  Stephen  Lee  and  the 
plucky,  nonchalant  dramatist.  The  publisher,  with  one 
hand  on  the  table,  and  the  thumb  of  the  other  in  his 
waistcoat  arm  -  hole,  looked  down  now  and  again  ab- 
stractedly at  the  magazines  and  newspapers  strewn  be- 
side him.  Suddenly,  while  Lloyd  watched  him,  the  old 
man  started,  bent  his  gaze  to  a  daily  journal,  and,  raising 
his  gold-rimmed  glasses,  began  to  read.  As  he  did  so  a 
look  of  astonishment  crossed  his  face,  then  a  glow  of 
pleasure.  Catching  up  the  paper  in  great  excitement, 
he  held  it  out  to  Parker  and  pointed  to  one  of  the  col- 
umns with  beaming  pride.  The  little  old  gentleman's 
eyes  stole  around  towards  Lloyd,  then  back  again  to  the 
paper,  their  lights  dancing.  With  the  tip  of  his  tongue 

309 


The    Triumph   of    Life 

he  moistened  the  corners  of  his  berry-like  mouth — a  sign 
of  extreme  satisfaction. 

Parker  read  the  article  with  widening  eyes,  and,  hand- 
ing back  the  journal,  he,  too,  shot  a  glance  of  interest  at 
Enoch. 

Mr.  Lee,  with  the  paper  in  hand,  bustled  forward  to 
the  corner  circle. 

Lloyd,  thus  interrupted  in  the  shaping  of  his  resolve, 
hastily  confirmed  it  within  himself  by  a  terse,  mechanical 
repetition.  "Straight  home.  My  name  is  obscure,  any- 
way. There's  nothing  to  lose,  and  all  to  gain." 

As  he  reiterated  this  conclusion,  Mr.  Lee,  with  a  flour- 
ish, held  out  the  paper.  The  little  old  gentleman  pointed 
a  trembling  forefinger  at  the  column  farthest  to  the  left. 
"See  that!  See  that!  It's  yesterday's  paper.  This  is 
news,  if  there  ever  was  any." 

Morton,  Pritchard,  and  the  rest  looked  on  in  mild 
curiosity.  The  friars  of  Thibet  retired  into  their  cells. 
The  veteran  humorist  and  his  victim,  the  explorer, 
glanced  up  through  their  smoke  at  Enoch's  face. 

Lloyd  rose  and  looked  at  the  beginning  of  the  article. 
It  was  the  London  Letter  of  the  Sunday  Tribune. 

"There  is  undoubtedly  much  consternation  on  account 
of  the  Colonial  Secretary's  unsparing — " 

Enoch  skimmed  to  the  paragraph  be1ow: 

"  London  takes  the  American  strike  very  seriously.  The 
Saturday  Review  even  goes  so  far — " 

Lloyd's  glance  fell  lower  still: 

"In  literary  circles  there  is  a  great  commotion.  Sud- 
denly a  book  entitled  The  Greatest  Good,  by  a  new  American 
author,  has  sprung  into  public  notice.  Most  of  the  re- 
viewers had  ignored  it,  but  Arthur  Strickland,  the  well- 
known  critic,  writing  in  The  Academy,  has  just  come  out 


The   Course    of  the   Incubus 

with  an  article  lauding  it  to  the  skies.  So  another  wrangle 
is  probably  afoot  among  the  scribes,  and  the  public  already 
has  begun  to  pay  the  piper.  The  book  is  selling  won- 
derfully. It  is  unquestionably  the  sensation  of  the  week. 
The  name  of  its  author,  Enoch  Lloyd,  has  appeared  in 
print  for  the  last  three  days  nearly  as  often  as  the  Colonial 
Secretary's.  Mr.  Strickland  will  have  a  letter  in  the  Times 
to-morrow  morning  maintaining  that  the  book  is  far  too 
good  for  mere  ephemeral  puffery.  With  characteristic 
earnestness  he  deplores  the  sensation.  Mr.  Lloyd's  name, 
he  even  declares,  if  the  young  author  lives  up  to  this  first 
promise,  will  in  time  be  revered  by  thousands  of  readers." 

Lloyd's  glance,  utterly  dazed,  rested  for  a  moment  on 
the  lowest  paragraph: 

"  At  the  Adelphi  a  three-act  farce — " 

He  found  his  voice.  "It  seems  impossible."  His 
cheeks  were  on  fire,  and  his  eyes. 

The  humorist,  wondering,  nudged  the  explorer.  Cuth- 
bert  peered  at  the  paper  over  Enoch's  shoulder. 

"My  congratulations,"  said  Parker,  gayly. 

Pritchard  seemed  to  be  studying  Enoch's  figure,  as 
though  it  were  that  of  a  model  worthy  of  marble.  Per- 
haps he  would  have  entitled  it  "Attainment." 

The  tip  of  Mr.  Lee's  tongue  sidled  from  corner  to  cor- 
ner of  the  berry  mouth.  He  glanced  at  Enoch  with 
fatherly  pride.  "So  sudden!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low 
voice.  "So  very  sudden!  Well,  that's  the  way  of  it 
nowadays.  There's  never  any  telling.  Funny,  isn't  it? 
You're  the  proverbial  prophet  over  again,  except  that 
after  this  you  will  probably  receive  all  the  honor  you 
want  even  in  your  own  country." 

Enoch  listened  without  a  thought.  The  moment  was 
far  too  big,  too  sweet,  for  reason.  He  felt  inspired.  The 
paper  trembled  in  his  hand.  His  blood  was  hot;  his 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

heart  throbbed.  He  could  almost  have  wept  with  hap- 
piness. He  said  nothing. 

Mr.  Lee  understood,  and  fairly  basked  in  his  prot^g^'s 
joy.  "Now,  aren't  you  glad,"  he  laughed,  all  but  in- 
audibly,  "you  didn't  take  Steele's  advice?" 

Enoch  started;  the  paper  rattled;  he  glanced  down  at 
the  fateful  sheet  to  hide  the  sudden,  icy  paleness  of  his 
face.  "Yes,  yes;  of  course."  About  his  heart  a  cord 
seemed  to  tighten  and  cut  deep.  The  fever  of  attain- 
ment died  to  the  chill  of  guilt. 

"At  the  Adelphi,"  he  read  again  and  again,  mechani- 
cally, "a  three-act  farce — " 

His  brain  caught  at  the  word  "farce,"  and  hung  to  it. 
For  a  moment  that  word  was  the  only  possible  utter- 
ance of  his  consciousness.  All  the  life  in  him  chatter- 
ed it  with  deafening  insistence.  Farce!  His  thoughts 
concentrated  on  it,  desperately  needing  an  edge.  Farce! 
The  word  sharpened  them  quickly.  Farce!  The  word 
denned  his  present  existence,  and  the  spirit  of  truth  in 
him  accepted  the  definition .  ' '  Yes , "  it  whispered , ' '  farce ! 
farce!" 

Though  talking  and  laughing  and  keeping  as  natural 
a  front  as  possible,  he  had  suddenly  succumbed  to  a  panic 
of  fear.  A  new  realization  filled  his  mind.  What  if 
the  woman  should  expose  him  now?  What  if  she  had 
already  done  so?  And  his  name  was  a  name  that  men 
might  revere;  his  name  was  known.  It  was  not  obscure. 
Now  he  had  everything  to  lose.  If  the  world  became 
aware  that  Enoch  Lloyd  was  Dolly  Cohen,  that  the  au- 
thor of  The  Greatest  Good  had  wantonly  written  shady 
trash,  and  skulked  under  that  preposterous  pen-name, 
its  jeering  laughter  would  follow  him  to  the  grave.  How 
bitterly  Arthur  Strickland  would  despise  him.  But  who 
was  this  Arthur  Strickland?  What  if  he  did?  How 
curious  that  an  utter  stranger,  a  foreigner,  a  mere  name, 
should  suddenly  have  taken  a  part  in  his  destiny !  Yes ; 

312 


The   Course   of  the   Incubus 

Strickland  would  be  called  a  dupe,  and  Enoch  Lloyd  a 
literary  swindler.  Never  could  he  live  down  so  terrible 
an  obloquy.  The  sting  of  the  stigma  would  prove  fatal 
to  his  soul.  Never  again  could  he  lift  his  head.  And, 
besides,  his  influence  over  men  would  be  forever  lost. 
Yes,  cried  the  voices  of  hell,  his  ennobling  influence  over 
mankind  would  be  forever  gone.  -  The  Greatest  Good 
would  become  the  byword  of  cynics.  It  would  synony- 
mize  hypocrisy.  It  would  become  a  proverb  by  which 
to  define  a  pharisee.  Oh,  God!  Who  could  face  so  ig- 
nominious a  future?  This,  at  all  events,  was  the  work 
of  fate.  From  abroad,  like  a  flash  from  an  unseen  cloud, 
had  come  this  message  to  change  his  life.  There  was  no 
reasoning  against  chance,  no  accounting  for  Arthur 
Strickland,  no  possibility  of  opposing  the  infinite.  Yes ; 
he  must  go  to  her  at  once.  Whatever  might  happen,  he 
must  go  to  the  actual  Dolly  Cohen.  She  held  his  future 
in  her  hands. 

"  Good-night,  good-night,"  he  said  to  one  and  another. 
"I  had  nearly  forgotten  an  appointment."  He  left 
them. 

Again  the  humorist  nudged  the  explorer,  the  publisher 
winked  at  the  humorist. 

"It's  too  much  for  him,"  laughed  Parker,  lighting  a 
fresh  cigar.  "He'll  get  over  it  soon  enough;  that's  cer- 
tain." 

The  humorist  nodded.  "The  beginning  of  fame,"  said 
he,  "is  like  the  first  moment  of  a  honeymoon.  After- 
wards comes  the  trouble." 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  the  traveller,  still  reminiscent. 
"Honeymoons  aren't  always  green  cheese.  Now,  when 
I  was  down  in  Tahiti — " 

Thus  the  lions  gambolled  on,  but  Cuthbert  said  little, 
and  Enoch,  with  an  incubus  heavy  as  a  millstone,  went 
the  way  that  his  panic  led  him. 


XI 
The  Witch's   Caldron 

,  you  do  not  understand  the  subtleties  of 
dressing." 

Dolly  stood  at  her  mirror  dawdling  over  the  final,  ef- 
fective touches  of  her  toilet.  She  was  dressed  like  a 
debutante,  in  a  gown  of  white  chiffon,  trimmed  with  bow- 
knotted  ribbons  and  sprigs  of  blossoms.  "It  is  well  to 
be  maidenly,"  she  thought,  "on  one's  birthday.  This  is 
the  anniversary  of  about  the  only  day  when  I  knew 
nothing."  Yet,  of  course,  there  must  be  touches.  She 
could  not  forego  a  hint.  Sheer  white  meant  only  vacu- 
ous innocence,  but  white  with  a  dot  of  color  was  inno- 
cence with  a  soul.  How  dearly  she  loved  contrast !  How 
nicely  she  understood  suggestiveness !  Drawing  a  rose- 
bud from  a  slender,  crystal  vase  on  her  dressing-table, 
she  held  it  out  stem  foremost  to  Felice.  "You've  for- 
gotten the  thorns." 

Shamefacedly  the  dutiful  Creole  glanced  about  for  a 
pair  of  scissors.  Dolly  frowned.  "Use  your  fingers. 
Don't  you  see  I  am  waiting?  You  deserve  a  punish- 
ment." Fe'lice  said  nothing,  but  proceeded  to  pluck 
away  the  thorns,  one  by  one,  with  so  much  haste  that 
suddenly  the  blood  ran.  "Look  out!"  cried  Dolly,  an- 
noyedly.  "Keep  away.  It  will  drop  on  my  skirt." 
Taking  the  rosebud,  which  was  L  rge,  firm,  and  of  a  deep- 
crimson  hue,  she  inserted  it  in  the  central  crevice  of  her 
bosom.  "There,  Fe'lice,"  she  observed,  standing  back  a 
little  from  her  mirror  and  breathing  deeply  to  stir  the 


The   Witch's   Caldron 

bud;  "that  is  a  subtlety."  She  smiled  at  the  glass. 
"  Felice,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  how  would  you 
like  to  be  a  dressmaker?  I've  often  thought  I  might  do 
so.  It's  fashionable  now.  We'd  have  a  nice  little  white- 
and-gold  shop  in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  be  modistes  or  milli- 
ners. How  delightful!  I  believe  I  could  do  it  splendidly. 
Stand  here."  She  stepped  aside,  and,  posing  the  Creole 
before  the  mirror,  proceeded  to  act  the  part  of  a  coutu- 
riere  fresh  from  Paris.  "Ah,  ma'm'selle,  c'est  char- 
mante."  She  played  about  the  slender  figure  with 
airy,  flattering  fingers.  "C'estmagnifique!"  She  turned 
away,  laughing  softly.  ' '  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
I  need  never  go  hungry." 

Her  expression  was  indefinably  bewitching.  Where 
others  of  her  order  would  have  betrayed  in  sensuousness 
of  costume  their  true  natures,  only  suggesting  by  little 
touches  and  airs  the  naivete*  of  young  girls,  Dolly  re- 
versed the  effect.  To-night  she  preferred  to  play  the 
ingenue,  so  far  as  her  look  permitted,  unadorned  by  any 
jewels  whatsoever,  and  to  seem  all  the  more  fascinating 
in  simplicity,  with  only  a  single  hint  of  seduction,  and 
this  a  bud!  A  master  of  the  feminine  art  sartorial,  she 
dressed  for  the  mood  of  the  man. 

So  arrayed  in  the  present  instance,  the  Queen  of  Bo- 
hemia at  last  seated  herself  in  her  bow-window,  took  up 
a  dainty  silk  brochure  of  poems,  and,  skimming  from 
verse  to  verse,  awaited  the  assembling  of  her  court. 

Meanwhile  Bonhomme,  who  had  been  sleeping  under 
the  throne,  emerged,  stretching  himself. 

Her  majesty  smiled.  "Isn't  your  little  body  elon- 
gated enough  already?  Stand  up.  Quick!  Like  Sen- 
nacherib!" Obediently  the  dachshund  rose  on  his  hind- 
legs.  "Now,  come;  hurry!"  With  great  difficulty  the 
whim-ruled  pet  advanced  step  by  step  until,  being  finally 
within  reach  of  his  mistress,  he  tottered  forward,  and 
with  a  grotesque  little  jump  of  gladness  found  support  by 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

resting  his  forepaws  on  her  knees.  While  he  stood  there 
and  panted  with  lolling  tongue,  his  large,  pathetic  eyes, 
looking  about  and  up  at  hers,  seemed  to  say,  "It  was 
very  hard,  you  know,  but  I'd  do  anything  for  you." 

He  did  not  stand  there  long.  Dolly  caught  up  his 
paws  from  the  white  chiffon.  "Little  beast,  get  off!" 
She  pushed  him  backward  roughly.  "You're  as  much 
of  a  bother  as  the  rest  of  them." 

As  if  to  forgive  her  harsh  rebuff,  he  came  and  sat 
down  at  her  feet,  and,  raising  his  nose,  tried  to  lick  her 
hand. 

"There  you  are;  that's  just  like  them.  Why  didn't 
you  try  to  make  me  afraid  ?  You're  a  little  fool.  You're 
just  like  Matthew.  You  skulk  away  and  whine.  Why 
don't  you  complain  when  I  hurt  you?  Why  don't  you 
bite  me?"  She  clasped  a  hand  over  his  long  muzzle  and 
squeezed  it  so  hard  that  he  wriggled  off  with  a  little  cry, 
but  only  to  return  more  meekly  apologetic  than  before. 
"Coward!"  she  exclaimed,  pettishly,  "you  haven't  half 
the  spirit  of  a  cat." 

He  snuggled  up  against  her  skirt  and  proceeded  to  lay 
him  down  in  peace.  Somehow,  the  mere  contact  of  so 
helpless  and  mild  a  creature  'kindled  her  anger.  Her 
mind,  always  devious  and  distorted  in  fancy,  began  to 
cast  about  in  a  spiteful  way  for  some  torment  that  would 
instil  a  little  of  her  own  feline  complexity  and  spirit  into 
the  faithful  pet.  What  a  bore  he  was  to-night!  She 
would  have  much  preferred  a  dangerous  companion. 
Suddenly  she  stood  up  and  went  into  the  dining-room, 
her  eyes  alight  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  and  wanton 
cruelty.  She  knew  what  metamorphosed  men  and 
brightened  their  wits.  Would  it  not  transform  the  stu- 
pid dog  as  well?  Her  fantastic  imagination,  so  often 
feeding  on  the  grotesque,  conceived  a  diverting  experi- 
ment. Calling  Bonhomme,  she  dipped  a  spoon  into  the 
punch-bowl,  caught  his  nose,  and  forced  the  strong  de- 


The   Witch's   Caldron 

coction  down  his  throat.  "There,  you've  never  had  a 
medicine  like  that  before!  Do  you  know  what  this  will 
do?  This  will  make  a  man  of  you.  You  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  a  fool." 

He  crawled  away  into  a  dark  corner,  but  Dolly  filled 
the  spoon  again  and  sought  him  out.  "  Here's  another. 
Oh,  how  you  will  stagger!  But  perhaps  you  won't. 
How  droll!  Perhaps  your  legs  are  too  crooked  already 
ever  to  be  crookeder.  Perhaps  the  punch  will  make 
you  walk  straight."  She  forced  the  second  spoonful 
between  his  teeth,  then,  while  he  lay  there  cringing  and 
huntedly  eying  her,  still  a  third.  When  she  was  return- 
ing again  from  the  punch-bowl  he  started  up  with  a  cry, 
and,  darting  past  her,  fled  skulking  under  the  dining- 
table.  Dolly  was  for  going  on  her  knees  to  drag  him  out 
and  administer  the  final  dose,  when  Felice  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"Ma'm'selle,  the  guests  are  arriving." 

Dolly  nodded  and  downed  the  spoonful  herself.  "  Show 
them  in." 

In  a  moment  she  was  receiving  her  court. 

To-night  she  saw  signs  of  a  slight  improvement  in  the 
quality  of  the  doubtful  coterie.  One  or  two  of  her  gar- 
ish luminaries  were  now  supplanted  by  more  starlike 
lights.  Among  the  latter  was  a  comic-opera  librettist, 
young,  Jewish,  clever,  and,  though  supremely  satirical 
in  his  glances,  not  unwilling  to  be  wined.  Another  ac- 
cession was  a  well  -  known  cartoonist,  who  felt  much 
obliged  to  these  grotesque  models  for  their  varied  poses 
under  his  eye.  The  hostess  amusedly  guessed  what  he 
had  come  for,  but  why  should  it  matter  so  long  as  he  was 
here  ?  Still  a  third  guest  of  real  and  growing  distinction 
was  a  young  violinist,  of  whom  her  majesty,  when  she  in- 
troduced him,  remarked  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  fat 
and  mournful  Pole:  "This  gentleman  has  not  lost  a  Stra- 
divarius — in  fact  he  never  had  one.  Nevertheless,  a  little 


The   Triumph  of  Life 

later  you  shall  hear  him  play."  At  which  the  unfortu- 
nate Walrus,  against  whom  this  badinage  was  so  openly 
directed,  could  have  wept  for  envious  chagrin. 

The  queen  to-night  was  in  feverish  mood.  Outwardly, 
she  appeared  to  be  carried  away  by  every  ^ivacious  bit 
of  banter  and  bewitching  folly  her  spritely  wit  conceived. 
Unhappy  the  pseudo-celebrities!  Not  one  but  felt  the 
piquancy  of  her  chaff,  the  quips  and  lashes  of  her  ready 
tongue.  On  the  other  hand,  happier  far  than  their  ex- 
pectations the  true  lights!  Not  one  but  found  her  flat- 
tery the  most  brilliant  and  dexterous  he  had  ever  known. 
She  was,  indeed,  a  fascinating  woman.  They  would 
bring  their  friends. 

Yet,  inwardly,  while  all  this  progressed  as  it  should, 
her  majesty  was  consumed  by  so  great  an  anxiety  and 
impatience  that  only  daring  and  headlong  animation 
could  mask  her  thoughts.  Propriety  to  the  four  winds! 
He  had  not  come.  "To-morrow  we  die — "!  She  was 
in  despair.  What  cared  she  for  the  bow-knotted  ribbons 
and  blossoms?  What  was  the  use  of  symbols  of  inno- 
cence if  he  whose  mood  they  had  been  worn  for  kept 
away.  Yes,  yes;  she  had  lost.  She  had  given  him  till 
ten.  It  was  now  eleven.  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry — ! 
To  the  devil  with  fear. 

Springing  down  at  last  from  her  hobby,  which  was,  as 
we  know,  scrupulous  decorum,  she  flung  the  reins  to  her 
delighted  guests.  What  more  natural,  after  so  reckless 
a  proceeding,  than  a  general  fling?  What  more  logically 
consequent  than  license? 

About  the  dining-table  they  crushed  and  jammed.  In 
the  centre  stood  a  large  birthday-cake  frosted  and  light- 
ed with  a  few  ironical  candles  that  were  soon  blown  out 
by  the  gale  of  mirth. 

Sennacherib  was  determined  to  offer  a  toast.  His 
fellow-courtiers  were  quite  as  resolute  in  preventing  him. 
Now  and  again,  eager  to  conciliate  the  oppressor,  some 


The  Witch's  Caldron 

lambkin  made  bold  to  bleat  encouragement,  but  the  lion- 
skin  wearers  roared  him  down. 

So  it  went  from  fast  to  loose,  and  the  punch-bowl  was 
the  centre  of  her  universe  of  stars! 

Grievous  to  relate,  it  went  too  far,  and  the  bow-knotted 
ribbons  and  artificial  blossoms,  disarranged  in  the  crush, 
hinted  that  possibly  the  imitation  of  a  debutante  was,  for 
once  in  her  life,  planetary  to  the  common  centre.  Sad  to 
relate,  excess  ensued,  not  on  her  part  to  a  noticeable  ex- 
tent (while  there's  life  there's  a  spark  of  hope),  but  in  the 
deportment  of  others.  And  the  mDst  immoderate  of  all 
the  gods  was  the  bemoaner  of  a  now  deified  Stradivarius, 
who,  being  at  last  overcome  by  grief,  jealousy,  and  in- 
numerable libations,  persisted  in  shortening  his  ample 
form  still  further  than  usual — even  to  "all  fours,"  on 
which,  as  though  desirous  of  leaving  forever  a  profane 
world,  he  ambled  under  the  dining-table. 

Some  were  amused,  some  shocked,  but  the  queen  her- 
self flashed  furious.  This  was  too  much;  this  was  dis- 
reputable !  Yet,  as  hostess,  and  having,  for  once  in  a  way, 
recklessly  joined  others  in  an  orgy,  what  could  she  do  on 
so  trying  an  occasion? 

Genuinely  bewildered,  she  did  nothing,  and  so  the  col- 
lapse of  the  Walrus  would  soon  have  been  forgotten  but 
for  another  offended  member  of  the  company  who  had 
not  been  reckoned  with  as  he  deserved.  He,  too,  was  on 
all  fours  under  the  dining-table.  Having  just  risen  from 
a  troubled  sleep,  he  naturally  felt  chagrined  at  finding  his 
pleasant  retreat  suddenly  invaded  by  one  who,  though 
apparently  of  his  own  species,  possessed  the  gigantic 
proportions  of  a  nightmare.  At  all  events,  from  under 
the  table  now  issued  a  whine  or  cry  so  unearthly  and 
terrified  that  the  whole  court  to  a  man  was  thereby 
struck  speechless  with  amazement.  But  in  another  mo- 
ment, breaking  the  tense  silence,  rose  the  laughter  of 
Dolly  herself,  full  of  tinkling  mirth  and  deviltry. 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

"Oh,  oh,  oh;  it  is  my  dachshund!"  Then,  beside  her- 
self with  delight,  "Bring  him  out,"  she  cried,  impatient- 
ly; "quick,  somebody!" 

In  a  minute  Bonhomme  was  in  her  arms.  Her  aban- 
donment to  recklessness  now  reached  its  height.  "Take 
away  the  punch -bowl." 

"No,  no!"  ejaculated  the  ex-soprano,  who  it  was  pre- 
viously supposed  had  lost  her  voice. 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Sennacherib,  with  grave  empha- 
sis. 

"Idiots!"  cried  Dolly;  "put  it  on  the  sideboard.  I'm 
going  to  try  an  experiment."  She  pointed  to  the  in- 
discriminate litter  of  china  and  crystal.  "Take  it  all 
away.  Clear  the  table." 

It  was  quickly  done.  Those  in  the  dining-room  gath- 
ered about  in  wonder  and  curiosity.  Others  from  the 
drawing-room,  having  heard  the  commotion,  stood  in 
a  group  four  or  five  rows  deep,  crowding  through  the 
doorway. 

"Now,"  said  Dolly,  mimicking  the  pomposity  of  a 
showman — "now,  perhaps,  you  will  see  the  most  exqui- 
sitely droll  and  ludicrous  thing  in  the  world — namely,  a 
drunken  dachshund.  He  took  to  the  bowl  before  any  of 
you.  Behold  yourselves  going  home  in  the  morning." 
At  this  there  was  a  buzz  of  surprise,  and  Dolly  put  little 
Bonhomme  upon  the  table.  "Stand  up — like  Sennache- 
rib!" (Subdued  sniggers  from  the  audience.) 

For  a  moment  the  dog  stood  hesitant,  looking  at  one 
and  another  dazedly,  then  up,  with  a  sort  of  mute  be- 
seechment  to  her  eyes. 

"Stand  up,  sir!" 

He  tried  and  failed,  tried  and  failed,  then  slowly,  be- 
wilderedly,  rose  tottering. 

Dolly  ran  quickly  to  the  other  end  of  the  table.  "  Now, 
come  here." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Obediently  he  attempted 

320 


The  Witch's   Caldron 

to  turn,  fell,  then  stood  up  once  more  on  his  hind-legs, 
facing  her. 

"Come  here,  I  tell  you." 

With  halting,  uncertain  steps  he  shambled  forward, 
his  little  paws  thrust  out  obliquely  from  his  sausage-like 
body,  his  tail  cutting  a  wide  swath,  while  he  staggered 
towards  his  adored  mistress. 

A  murmur  of  approval  rose  from  all,  which,  no  doubt, 
would  have  developed  quickly  into  loud  applause  but  for 
an  unexpected  interruption. 

Suddenly  from  the  rear  row  of  the  -group  which  filled 
the  doorway  came  one  word  clearly  audible  above  the 
murmur. 

"Disgusting!" 

In  astonishment  every  face  was  turned  towards  the 
dining-room.  Then,  as  if  to  accuse  the  new-comer  and 
prove  themselves  innocent  of  this  impudence,  those  in 
the  doorway  parted,  leaving  the  bold  speaker  conspicu- 
ously alone.  Dolly,  tense  under  the  shock,  the  finger- 
nails of  one  hand  scarring  her  palm,  her  head  thrown 
back  and  eyes  menacing,  gazed  at  the  outspoken  guest 
in  fury.  He,  on  his  part,  answered  her  look  with  coldly 
indignant  eyes;  next,  glancing  down  in  pity  at  the  dachs- 
hund, he  shuddered  and  turned  away. 

Her  majesty  spoke  in  a  low  whisper  to  the  general  and 
one  or  two  others  who  were  near.  "Oh,  he  shall  suffer 
for  his  insolence."  A  cruel  smile  played  about  the  down- 
turned  corners  of  her  mouth.  "You  shall  see  him  leave 
here  this  very  evening  in  the  same  ludicrous  condition 
as  my  dog!" 

Sennacherib  assumed  a  judicial  air,  strangely  at  vari- 
ance with  his  present  vagueness  of  expression.  "That 
is  jushtish,"  he  declared,  scowling  after  the  culprit.  "  I 
am  great  b'liever  in  dish — in  dishipl'arian  prinshiples." 
And  the  lady  of  the  larynx  giggled  with  delight. 

Dolly  repaired  to  the  drawing-room.  Already  sev- 
2.  321 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

eral  were  approaching  to  take  their  leave.  The  comic- 
opera  librettist  came  first.  "Your  punch  is  a  witch's 
broth,"  he  told  her.  "What  is  the  secret  of  that  brew?" 

She  looked  about  at  the  others,  and  frowned  at  sight 
of  the  broth's  results.  "I  suppose  you  would  call  this 
performance  a  wild  extravaganza." 

He  smiled  ironically,  then,  yielding  to  her  love  of  ad- 
miration, replied  with  a  graceful  mingling  of  chaff  and 
ardor,  "Your  majesty's  eyes  demand  something  on  more 
tragic  lines.  The  hero  should.,  of  course,  kill  himself  in 
the  last  act." 

The  cartoonist  joined  his  friend.  "True,"  he  said, 
seeming  as  usual  to  glance  everywhere  at  once,  "a  dire 
tragedy  '' 

Dolly  held  out  her  hand.  "  Come  again.  There ; 
don't  hide  your  cuff  so  carefully.  I  know  you  have  been 
jotting  us  all  down  on  it  for  use  in  the  future.  I  saw 
you."  'He  put  an  arm  through  the  playwright's,  and 
assumed  .a  penitent  air.  "Well,  I  confess  you've  caught 
me.  See." 

She  glanced  down.  There,  in  a  few  lines,  was  Sen- 
nacherib, his  body  in  the  form  of  a  medal,  the  ribbons  of 
which  were  tied  in  a  coquettish  bow-knot  under  his 
beard.  There,  too,  were  the  pitiful  Pole  and  the  long- 
necked  soprano,  linking  arms  with  Bonhomme.  Dolly 
laughed  delightedly.  "And  where  am  I?" 

The  cartoonist  held  a  hand  to  his  heart  with  exagger- 
ated passion.  "Your  majesty  is  here,  not  sketched  but 
graven  deep,  not  caricatured  but  idealized,  if  that  is 
possible." 

As  they  bowed  themselves  off,  arm  in  arm,  her  maj- 
esty glanced  about  comprehensively.  Out  of  the  tail  of 
her  eye  she  could  see  Lloyd  standing  apart  from  the  rest, 
waiting  for  her.  Under  his  arm  he  held  a  square  parcel. 
At  sight  of  that  her  heart  fluttered  wildly.  With  what 
intention  had  he  brought  the  manuscript?  His  look 

322 


The  Witch's   Caldron 

failed  to  enlighten  her.  Again  she  saw  the  thrill  of  a 
battle  ahead ;  already  it  tightened  her  nerves  and  sharp- 
ened the  wits  upon  which  she  must  rely  for  victory. 
Everything  was  at  stake  to-night.  In  that  parcel  lay 
her  beloved  fame,  her  chances  of  success,  all  her  am- 
bition, her  hopes — in  fact,  her  entire  future. 

Quickly  she  slipped  to  the  anteroom  to  make  sure 
that  the  sundry  details  intrusted  to  Felice  had  been  car- 
ried out.  The  coal  fire  should  have  been  laid,  but  not 
lighted,  an  arm-chair  before  it,  a  separate  bowl-of  punch 
on  the  table  near  the  divan.  She  recognized  the  value 
of  scrupulous  attention  to  the  stage-settings  in  each  little 
farce  her  inventive  brain  conceived. 

Then  what  was  her  chagrin  when,  on  entering  the 
anteroom,  she  found  the  arm-chair  occupied  by  a  new- 
comer very  different  from  the  one  for  whom  she  had 
arranged  it.  There,  on  the  chair's  edge,  lookirig  about 
towards  her  as  she  parted  the  Japanese  hangings,  sat 
none  other  than  Matthew  Steele. 

On  noting  her  annoyance,  he  smiled  with  glacial  sat- 
isfaction. She  saw  that,  by  some  inexplicable  turn  of 
chance,  he  had  regained  his  calculative  look  and  was 
perfectly  sober. 

Of  course,  to  any  one  else  he  would  have  been  far  less 
objectionable  thus  in  his  right  mind  —  overkeen,  per- 
haps, and  utterly  devoid  of  the  magnetic  humanities, 
but,  nevertheless,  a  strong  business  man  of  sure  resource. 
To  her,  however,  he  was  at  the  present  moment  doubly 
unpleasant  and  dangerous. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  had  come." 

"Evidently." 

His  tone  frightened  her.  "See  here,  Matthew,  what 
right  have  you  to  assume  control  of  me?" 

"Quite  as  much  as  you  had  to  do  the  same  with  me." 
His  lips  were  firmer  than  usual,  and  above  the  upper  she 
noticed  a  rough  stubble.  He  had  begun  to  let  his  mus- 

323 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

tache  grow  again.  "  I  was  nearly  insane,"  he  continued, 
calmly.  "The  drink  was  too  much  for  me.  I  hadn't 
learned  the  tricks  of  it."  He  laughed  that  old,  clipped 
laugh  of  his.  "Too  much  milk,  I  suppose,  all  these 
years.  Damn  the  green  stuff!"  He  stepped  close  to  her, 
heavily  masterful.  "You  taught  me  the  habit." 

She  laughed  nervously.  "How  absurd!  A  man  of 
your  age  knows  well  enough  what  he  is  doing." 

"Perhaps  so,  and  perhaps  not.  Of  course,  he  does  in 
his  own  line.  But  didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  led  a  clean,  ab- 
stemious life?  I  made  myself  that  way."  He  stood  up 
and  faced  her.  "The  change  has  been  terrible.  If  I 
had  drunk  a  little  always  it  might  have  been  different, 
but  when  a  man  of  forty  begins" — he  bit  his  pliable 
under-lip — "God  save  him!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  a  motion  that  caused  the 
rosebud  to  move  restlessly.  "Well,  you've  only  your- 
self to  blame.  Besides,  there's  no  harm  done." 

At  this  he  laid  a  hand  heavily  on  her  wrist;  she 
felt  the  stump  of  his  forefinger  press  against  her  flesh. 
Hitherto  it  had  fascinated  her,  this  the  one  thing  which 
had  always  been  unusual  about  him,  but  now  it  chilled 
her  to  the  bone. 

"No  harm!"  he  ejaculated.  "No  harm!  Do  you 
know,  if  I  kept  on  this  way  I'd  soon  be  ruined?  The 
stuff  has  got  hold  of  me  so  fast" — he  tightened  his  own 
grasp  in  emphasis — "so  fast  that  I  don't  look  after  the 
office." 

Dolly  smiled  with  triumphant  reminiscence.  "  I  think 
you -once  told  me  that  I  was  the  only  woman  who  could 
make  you  forget  your  business.  This  is  an  old  story. 
But  what  have  you  been  up  to  in  the  last  few  days? 
What  has  changed  you?"  She  was  genuinely  curious. 
It  seemed  inconceivable  that  he  should  so  suddenly  have 
succeeded  in  mastering  the  habit. 

When  he  answered  her  his  manner  and  voice  were  as 
324 


The    Witch's  Caldron 

hard  as  wrought  metal.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I've  done. 
See  here!"  He  took  from  his  breast-pocket  a  long  sheet 
of  paper  and  held  it  out  to  her. 

She  glanced  at  it  quickly  under  the  hanging  lamp.  To 
her  surprise  it  contained  nothing  but  several  columns  of 
figures  and  a  few  of  the  terms  used  by  accountants. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

Steele  folded  the  paper.     "This  is  my  balance  sheet." 

Her  eyes  widened.     "Well?" 

"My  balance  sheet,"  he  repeated,  calmly.  "Last 
week  I  told  them  to  strike  a  balance  and  make  a  full 
statement  and  bring  it  to  me.  When  they  did  so  I  knew 
what  I  was.  I  knew  I  was  a  damned  fool."  He  re- 
placed the  paper  in  his  breast-pocket.  "This  told  me 
so.  I've  lost  thousands  in  three  months.  This  proved 
it." 

Dolly  stood  speechless,  studying  him  with  a  look  of 
wonder — almost  awe.  Commercialism  corporate  stood 
before  her — the  god  of  the  machine.  The  ledger  was  his 
Bible,  figures  the  commandments  by  which  he  lived. 
Gradually  a  look  of  admiration  brightened  her  eyes.  In 
his  way  he  was  a  genius.  His  power  was  greater  than 
her  own.  Something  was  in  him  that  could  not  be  reck- 
oned with — one  of  the  first  principles  of  modern  life. 

"Now,  as  you've  done  the  thing,"  said  Steele,  "you've 
got  to  help  me,  and  there's  a  way." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  crumpling  one  of  the  artificial 
blossoms  on  her  dress  in  a  tight  clasp,  and  her  lips  moved 
rapidly  without  a  sound.  Then,  at  last,  she  raised  her 
head.  "It's  all  right ;  but  come  away  from  here.  If  you 
want  me  to  help  you,  do  as  I  say."  She  led  him  through 
the  crowd  to  the  dining-room,  now  emptied  of  its  rev- 
ellers, who  were  following  the  new  violinist  with  loud, 
importunate  demands,  and  urging  forth  to  the  drawing- 
room  his  predecessor  of  the  mournful  jowl  and  quad- 
rupedal propensities,  in  order,  as  they  said,  "to  rub  it  in." 

325 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"Well,"  said  Dolly,  helplessly,  "what  can  I  do? 
You're  all  right.  It  wasn't  so  bad — " 

He  interrupted  her  roughly.  "Yes,  it  was — bad  as 
could  be.  I've  been  to  a  doctor.  That's  my  way. 
This  is  the  day  of  professions.  When  a  thing's  out  of 
your  line,  go  to  the  man  who  understands  it.  If  you're 
hard  up,  go  to  a  bank.  If  you're  being  done,  go  to  a 
lawyer.  If  you're  wrong  inside,  go  to  a  doctor.  You've 
got  to  do  it  just  as  much  as  you've  got  to  go  to  an  under- 
taker when  you're  dead."  He  laughed  again,  without  a 
trace  of  humor.  "  I  went  to  a  specialist.  He's  straight- 
ening me  out.  He  says  there  are  thousands  of  men  who, 
if  they  touched  a  drop,  would  become  drunkards.  As  it 
happens,  they  never  have  started,  and  they  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  that  the  chance  of  this  hell  is  inside  of 
them.  But  it's  there  just  the  same;  it's  there  in  the 
brain,  and  when  it's  there  and  a  man  once  begins,  he's  a 
goner.  The  doctor  says  the  craving  comes  and  goes  and 
comes  again  any  time.  I  told  him  it  wouldn't  come 
again  in  my  case,  and  he  said  there  was  no  reason  it 
should,  but  he  looked  queer — which  shows  he  doesn't 
know  me.  When  I  make  up  my  mind  to  a  thing,  I'm  all 
right.  That's  positive." 

Dolly  nodded.  "I  am  glad  you  have  done  so.  You 
went  too  far."  She  was  telling  herself  that,  after  all, 
the  change  was  welcome.  If  ever  she  had  to  come  to  the 
point  and  marry  him,  she  could  do  it  now  and  still  have 
an  opulent  future. 

He  bent  over  her.  "Yes,  too  far,  and  you  did  it;  so 
you  will  have  to  undo  it.  I  want  to  get  back  those  thou- 
sands, and  you  can  help  me." 

Dolly  was  quivering.     "How?     How?" 

"You  must  give  me  another  book.  I  am  practically 
sure  it  will  sell.  Your  name  is  already  made  with  a  large 
class  of  readers.  The  profits  will  tide  me  over." 

Dolly's  face  went  deadly  pale.  The  situation  appalled 
326 


The  Witch's    Caldron 

her.  His  fate  had  suddenly  been  merged  with  hers,  his 
future  with  her  future,  his  chances  inextricably  tangled 
with  her  own.  If  she  failed  to  procure  Lloyd's  manu- 
script to-night  she  would  not  even  have  Steele  as  a  last 
stand-by.  He,  too,  might  be  ruined. 

"All  right,"  she  whispered,  breathlessly.  "You  can 
depend  on  me." 

"Perhaps  I  can,  and  perhaps  I  can't.  In  this,  maybe, 
but  not  in  the  other  way.  Tell  me,  do  you  intend  ever 
to  marry  me?  You  see,  I  still  want  you." 

She  was  too  excited  to  resent  the  brutal  calmness  with 
which,  at  the  moment,  he  managed  to  cloak  his  infatua- 
tion. "Yes,  yes;  I  swear  it.  There,  now!  I've  prom- 
ised on  my  soul.  Yes;  I  will." 

"Meanwhile,"  he  suggested,  with  a  short  nod,  "per- 
haps you'll  drop  that  Lloyd  boy.  Well,  anyway,  I 
guess  you'll  have  to.  He  won't  think  much  of  this 
crowd,  now  he's  struck  it  so  lucky  in  London." 

"In  London?  Lucky?"  Her  whisper  was  agitated; 
the  red  rose  trembled  on  her  breast. 

"Yes;  The  Greatest  Good.  It  has  sprung  up  like  a 
mushroom  overnight.  Didn't  you  read  the  Sunday 
papers?  But  what  do  we  care?  We're  talking  about 
your  work.  We're  talking  about  the  mushrooms  of 
Dolly  Cohen.  I  must  have  one  before  the  summer,  or 
there's  no  telling  what — " 

Her  eyes  danced.  "You  shall!  You  shall!  This  is 
my  birthday — the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Dolly 
Cohen.  To-day  she  is  born  again.  Wait  here  a  min- 
ute; I'll  come  back." 

In  another  moment  she  was  in  her  bedroom.  "  Felice, 
quick — pen,  ink,  paper!" 

When  the  requisites  of  her  plot  were  at  hand  she  fell 
to  writing  in  feverish  haste,  and  soon,  with  a  final  flourish, 
clapped  the  sheet  to  a  blotter,  then  folded  it  with  twitch- 
ing fingers  and  hid  it  beneath  the  rose.  Hastening  back 

327 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

to  Steele  in  the  dining-room,  "Tell  me,"  she  asked,  impa- 
tiently, "are  your  press-rooms  open  now?  No,  I  mean 
the  place  where  they  set  up  type.  Don't  ask  questions. 
Answer  me,  will  you? — quick!" 

Matthew  took  out  his  watch.  "Till  midnight.  Yes; 
there's  extra  work.  One  or  two  compositors — " 

"S-sh,"  she  cautioned  him,  with  a  furtive  glance  at 
the  drawing-room.  "  Do  you  want  a  new  novel  ?  Very 
well ;  you  shall  have  it  on  one  condition.  Do  what  I  say, 
and  do  it  quickly.  Not  a  word  to  a  soul;  not  a  question 
to  yourself.  This  is  a  dead  secret."  She  thrust  a  hand 
to  her  bosom.  "  It's — it's — er — well,  it's  wider  the  rose," 
she  laughed  nervously,  the  bud  trembling.  ' '  Now 
listen."  She  gave  him  the  sheet  of  note-paper  and 
whispered  in  his  ear.  "There,"  she  concluded,  "that's 
all."  With  dumb  bewilderment,  he  nodded  and  left  her. 
"No,"  she  whispered,  "go  out  through  the  pantry,  this 
way." 

Gayly  she  re-entered  the  drawing-room.  Here  the 
newly  acquired  violinist  had  just  succumbed  to  the  im- 
portunate demands  of  the  company.  As  he  began  to 
tune  his  instrument  Dolly  looked  about  for  Enoch. 

He  had  disappeared. 

Her  ears  caught  a  sound  of  crackling.  Alarmed,  she 
darted  a  glance  towards  the  cane-curtain  of  the  ante- 
room. Between  the  beaded  reeds  she  saw  a  flare  from 
the  coals  in  the  grate,  over  which  Enoch  on  one  knee  was 
intently  bending. 

Distracted  with  uneasiness,  she  hastened  towards  him, 
parted  the  hangings,  and  paused  in  dismay.  At  first, 
although  the  rattle  of  the  cane-work  must  have  told 
him  of  her  presence,  he  pursued  the  task  in  hand  with- 
out looking  up  to  meet  her  glance.  Perhaps  he  feared 
to  do  so.  On  the  hearth  she  saw  a  fatally  diminished 
pile  of  loose  and  disordered  typewritten  sheets,  from 
which,  with  a  quick  calmness,  he  fed  the  fire. 

328 


The   Witch's    Caldron 

She  had  come  too  late. 

Scarcely  believing  her  eyes,  she  stood  there  for  a  mo- 
ment impassively,  white  as  the  paper  he  was  burning. 
The  silence  of  the  deed  seemed  to  appall  her.  A  second 
power  greater  than  her  own  appeared  to  control  the  mo- 
ment. She  called  it  divine  audacity. 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look,  he  threw  the  pages, 
five  or  six  at  a  time,  into  the  fire  he  had  lighted,  while 
now  and  again  he  prodded  them  with  the  poker  to  make 
certain  of  their  fate. 

Even  when  resource  returned,  and  her  fingers  tingled 
and  her  eyes  ravished  the  remaining  pages  and  her  brain 
was  acute  with  counter-moves,  even  then  she  did  noth- 
ing. The  dramatics  of  the  moment  appealed  to  her. 
The  hush  and  the  scene  and  the  act  appealed  to  her,  even 
in  this  vital  extremity. 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look,  Enoch  mechanically 
stoked  the  fire.  The  white  pile  on  the  hearth  grew 
constantly  smaller;  the  black  pile  in  the  grate  grew  con- 
stantly larger.  He  was  stoking  the  fire  of  his  genius — 
the  fire  of  life. 

To  her  the  act  was  as  awful  as  a  crime  would  have  been 
to  an  angel.  Nevertheless,  she  smiled.  She  was  wit- 
nessing a  divine  comedy,  whose  characters  were  the  ele- 
ments of  being.  How  diverting,  for  once  in  a  way,  to 
stand  near  the  centre  of  existence  and  listen  to  the  heart- 
beat of  life!  How  droll! 

Still  silent  and  automatic,  the  stoker  stuck  to  his  work. 
Though  he  could  not  but  have  known  how  close  she 
stood  to  him,  he  gave  no  sign  of  notice.  Though  she 
stood  so  near  at  the  last  that  her  head  and  shoulders, 
backed  by  the  hanging  lamp,  threw  a  shadow  across  him, 
he  continued  to  ignore  her  presence. 

Her  fingers  moved  restlessly  at  her  side,  but  her  brain, 
always  complex  with  under-thoughts,  found  naught  to 
its  taste — naught,  in  fact,  within  its  capacity,  to  prompt 

329 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

any  overt  action.  She  might  have  attempted  a  quick 
theft  on  her  entrance,  but  she  would  not  have  succeed- 
ed. Nor  would  subterfuge  and  a  play  for  delay  have 
availed  her.  She  had  come  too  late.  For  once  she 
was  met  by  something  inevitable,  something  inexora- 
ble, a  destiny.  The  mere  mechanism  with  which  he 
was  destroying  his  incubus  impressed  this  realization 
strongly  on  her  mind.  A  wild  impulse  she  might  have 
combated,  but  this — no!  And  so  she  stood  there  dumb 
as  he,  waiting. 

Throwing  to  the  blaze  the  final  pages,  Lloyd  rose  to  his 
feet  and  faced  her  with  a  smile  of  triumph.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  keeping  you  waiting,  but  it  took  some  time 
to  cremate  Mr.  Hyde." 

She,  too,  smiled — smiled  sweetly.  "What  a  solemn 
scene!  How  sad!  I  call  it  really  tragic.  It  will  take 
you  so  long  to  resurrect  him."  She  straightened  the 
rose  at  her  bosom,  then  looked  up  again  with  quiet  as- 
surance. "Yet  this  is  exactly  what  my  dear  Lord  Exe- 
cutioner must  very  soon  start  to  do.  I  need  a  book 
before  the  summer,  and  the  royal  mandate  shall  never, 
never,  never  be  disobeyed!" 


XII 
Hecate's   Breto 

ENOCH'S  eyes  were  wide  with  amazement.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  withhold  admiration  from  a  per- 
sonality so  audaciously  buoyant.  "I  believe  you  would 
meet  even  actual  death,"  he  told  her,  in  wonder,  "with 
an  air."  He  was  experiencing  a  feeling  of  ineffable  re- 
lief. The  fact  that  he  had  at  last  acted  with  finality,  and 
that  Ashes  of  Roses  was  now  mere  ashes  of  paper,  left  no 
room  in  his  mind  for  doubt.  Her  words  had  little  effect. 
His  entire  soul  was  feeding,  so  to  speak,  on  the  triumph, 
and  as  it  fed  it  loafed  comfortably  and  grew  more  mellow, 
more  genial,  more  magnanimous  towards  his  victim — 
more  at  ease.  He  felt  really  sorry  for  the  Queen  of  Bo- 
hemia, whose  brief  little  reign  he  had  so  abruptly  ter- 
minated. He  could  now  afford  to  be  generous,  and  even 
to  console  her.  "You  would  even  die  with  an  air,"  he 
repeated,  seating  himself  in  the  arm-chair. 

Dolly  was  moving  about  behind  him.  "Perhaps  you 
are  right.  It's  the  best  way."  Pausing  near  the  hang- 
ings, she  nodded  encouragement  to  the  violinist,  then 
softly  closed  the  door  and  lowered  the  light  of  the  lamp 
above  them.  With  a  laugh  she  sank  to  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  "Yes,  yes;  it's  by  far  the  best  way.  Death  of- 
fers us  the  most  splendid  opportunity  we  can  ever  have 
to  prove  our  pluck.  Meet  him,  say  I,  with  a  laugh  and 
a  joke.  Dieu  de  Dieu,  I'd  laugh  at  him  even  if  he  tort- 
ured me.  Laughter  is  the  salvation  of  the  world;  tears 
damn  it.  Oh,  you  pretty  boy,  what  do  you  know  of  life, 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

anyway?"  She  took  his  hand,  which  he,  being  embar- 
rassed into  a  kind  of  indulgence  after  the  blow  he  had 
dealt,  made  no  immediate  attempt  to  withdraw.  "Oh, 
my  Angel,  what  do  you  know  of  the  sublime  possibilities 
of  laughter?  It  rings  like  a  bell  in  my  heart,  a  tiny, 
crystal  bell,  the  mere  tinkle  of  which  again  and  again 
saves  me  from  desperation."  She  stroked  his  palm  gen- 
tly. "  Oh,  I  hope  it  will  tinkle  when  death  comes  to  pay 
me  a  visit.  Then  I  shall  say,  'Bonjour,  M'sieur  Death. 
Comment  §a  va,  m'sieur?'  And  I  shall  make  him  want 
me  all  the  more,  but  I  shall  laugh  him  off  as  I  do  with  so 
many  visitors — you,  for  example."  Her  eyes  sparkled. 
"Yes;  you  are  my  Death — my  Death  at  the  present  mo- 
ment." She  laughed  aloud,  her  laughter  blending  with 
a  lively  air  which  the  player  in  the  drawing-room  had 
just  begun  on  his  violin.  "And  that  is  how  I  greet  you. 
Bonjour,  M'sieur  Death.  Have  a  glass  of  punch.  Here, 
you  shall  act  the  part!" 

Springing  up  quickly,  she  filled  him  a  glass  over- 
brimming, then  one  for  herself,  and  stood  before  him,  all 
on  the  qui  vive  with  the  piquancy  of  her  little  comedy. 

Her  dash  and  her  daring  original  strain  could  not  but 
appeal  to  Enoch.  It  caught  his  fancy  like  a  scene  on  the 
stage  —  like  a  vivid  scene  in  a  book,  and  he  yielded,  at 
first  merely  subjectively,  to  the  unusual  entertainment. 
Taking  his  glass,  he  bowed  and  drank  in  a  serious  man- 
ner, as  the  role  demanded. 

"  Hoik,  M'sieur  Death!"  she  cried.  "  Many  have  want- 
ed me,  none  has  won  me.  This  is  the  truth.  There's  not 
a  man  in  the  world  can  boast  in  his  heart  that  his  lips 
have  ever  touched  mine.  That's  true;  call  it  what  you 
will.  I  swear  it,  m'sieur,  upon  my  soul!"  She  glanced  at 
the  prie-dieu,  as  though  to  solemnize  her  oath.  "Why 
is  it  so?  No  wonder  you  ask.  I  don't  look  it,  do  I,  even 
in  snow-white  chiffon  and  bows  and  blossoms?  No? 
Well,  well,  qui  sait?  It's  all  a  mystery.  There's  some- 


Hecate's    Breto 

thing  in  me  that  says  'no.'  In  the  Latin  Quarter  they 
used  to  call  me  'La  P'tite  qui  Refuse.'  So  I  was;  so  I 
am.  It's  a  great  power.  Balzac  tells  us  what  a  great 
power  it  is  in  Cousin  Bette.  Of  you,  M'sieur  Death,  I 
am  not  afraid — one  bit!  Again  I  refuse.  Once  more  I 
say  'no.'  Oh,  la-la-la;  it  is  to  laugh!"  She  sank  again 
to  the  arm  of  Lloyd's  chair.  "Here,  M'sieur  Death, 
your  glass  is  empty.  We'll  drink  from  the  same  cup. 
It's  very  appropriate."  She  held  her  glass  to  his  lips, 
but  he  kept  them  closed,  coldly.  It  was  one  thing  to 
drink  from  his  own  glass,  quite  another  from  hers.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  startling  difference.  And  the  second  tune 
of  the  violinist,  a  far  less  vivacious  melody,  disturbed  his 
mind.  He  pushed  the  glass  away. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Dolly;  but  he  saw  her  wince. 
With  a  peculiar  blending  of  earnestness  and  banter,  a 
tragi-farcical  tenderness  and  devilry  in  her  eyes,  she  bent 
close  to  him  till  their  breaths  mingled,  then  with  a  flout 
drew  back  and  tossed  down  the  ruby  liquid.  "Do  you 
know,  I've  been  playing  the  fool  to-night,  and  it's  you 
who  made  me  do  it.  I've  been  almost  vulgar — even 
coarse!  Perhaps  this  is  the  real  I,  the  true  myself  that 
you've  awakened.  I  don't  care  to-night  what  happens. 
See;  the  chiffon  and  blossoms  are  crumpled!  I've  been 
drinking  as  never  before.  'Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,' 
you  told  me.  Well,  I've  done  it,  and  I  don't  care. 
Somehow,  I'm  stronger  to-night  than  I'«ve  ever  been. 
I'm  more  powerful.  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  real.  No, 
no;  don't  move.  See;  I'm  not  so  terribly  near  you." 
She  pretended  to  frown  in  order  to  hide  the  fact  that  she 
felt  like  doing  so.  "Remember,  I'm  not  accustomed  to 
being  avoided."  She  stirred  restlessly.  "Now,  listen. 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  I'm  going  to  show  you 
yourself.  You  came  here  in  a  vacillating  mood.  You 
were  positively  at  your  wits'  end.  You  came  to  parley. 
You  were  undecided.  Of  course,  you  were  dying  to  be 

333 


The   Triumph    of    Life 

rid  of  the  book,  but  you  didn't  dare  to  destroy  it.  Then, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  you  saw  Bonhomme  tipsy  on  the 
dining-table,  and  me  tormenting  him  before  them  all. 
The  scene  disgusted  you.  A  sort  of  creature-instinct  in 
you  cried  out  against  my  cruelty.  You  felt  sorry  for 
Bonhomme.  Where  principle  had  failed,  the  sight  of  a 
drunken  dog  decided  you.  That's  your  nature  to  a  T. 
You  are  very  impressionable.  Ergo,  you  burned  the 
manuscript."  She  sat  back  with  a  knowing  nod  and 
smiled. 

He  bit  his  lip.  "How  do  you  know  I  had  not  de- 
cided? You  jump  at  conclusions,  like  all  women." 

Dolly  laughed.  "Like  all  women?  What  do  you 
know  of  women?  Nothing  whatever.  No,  no;  I  never 
jump  at  conclusions.  I've  learned  life  by  living,  and 
I've  read  a  great  deal.  Now,  reading,  if  you  know  how 
to  discriminate,  is  the  second-best  teacher  in  the  world, 
and  even  if,  like  me,  you  don't  know  how,  there's  lots  to 
be  learned  from  almost  anything  that's  written."  Her 
manner  was  lightly  discursive — mischievously  so.  "For 
instance,  take  the  Sunday  papers — " 

Lloyd  started  perceptibly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  as  though  surprised. 
"You're  pale  as  a  ghost.  We're  only  having  a  nice  little 
literary  chat.  How  foolish  of  you!  Well,  as  I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  the  Sunday  papers,  of  course,  are  filled  with 
trash,  and  yet  they  are  sprinkled  with  information.  Do 
you  know  I  fairly  dote  on  the  Sunday  papers?"  Her 
voice  was  low,  amused,  and  insinuating.  "Don't  you? 
But  no;  of  course  not.  I  suppose  you  hate  the  very 
name  of  trash."  She  had  leaned  her  cheek  against  the 
edge  of  the  chair's  back,  and  was  swinging  her  feet  in- 
consequently. 

Enoch  started  to  rise  in  rough  anger,  as  if  with  a  des- 
perate desire  to  throw  this  new  incubus  after  the  old  one. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  and,  stretching  out  her  hand  to 
334 


Hecate's    Breto 

the  opposite  arm  of  the  chair,  she  barred  his  way.  "Not 
yet.  Oh,  now,  now  you  should  have  a  tinkling  bell  in 
your  heart,  so  that  you  could  laugh  even  at  yourself  as 
the  case  demands.  But  why  shouldn't  you  laugh  ?  What 
do  the  Sunday  papers  say?  They  tell  us  that  the  name 
of  Enoch  Lloyd  is  already  famous." 

He  sighed  heavily  and  relaxed,  with  silent  admission. 

"Enoch  Lloyd,"  pursued  Dolly;  "a  famous  name — a 
distinguished  name.  How  different  from  Dolly  Cohen!" 

"  Stop!  "exclaimed  Enoch.    "Why  do  you  torture  me?" 

To  his  surprise,  her  eyes  grew  suddenly  dim  with  moist- 
ure, while  for  a  moment  she  said  nothing.  Then,  "Poor 
boy,"  she  whispered;  "it's  all  for  your  own  good.  Now, 
do  take  my  advice  and  you'll  be  happy.  There's  not  the 
slightest  need  of  exposure.  Of  course,  you  can't  afford 
to  have  the  thing  known,  now  that  your  name  is  famous. 
That  would  be  suicidal.  You  would  not  only  murder 
Dolly,  but  you  would  kill  yourself — your  true  self.  Lis- 
ten. There's  a  way  of  escape.  Both  selves  must  live — 
yes,  both.  It  is  really  the  only  way.  You  will  continue 
to  write  for  Matthew  Steele — and  for  Stephen  Lee.  Mr. 
Lee  will  doubtless  press  you  soon  for  another  novel. 
Well  and  good.  He  shall  have  one.  It  will  even  sur- 
pass The  Greatest  Good.  And  as  for  me — why,  /  shall  be 
the  very  first  to  wish  Enoch  Lloyd  success  when  he  fol- 
lows his  best  ambition.  You  may  not  think  so,  but  I 
give  you  my  word.  I  can  appreciate  your  idealism. 
There's  a  world  of  good  in  me,  somewhere,  down  deep, 
but  also  there's  a  world  of  wisdom.  Before  the  summer 
you  must  write  another  book  as  Dolly  Cohen.  Keep  it 
harmless,  if  you  like — less  dangerous  than  Ashes  of  Roses. 
If  necessary,  you  can  even  work  on  both  books  at  the 
same  time.  Divide  your  hours.  Give  a  few  to  the  mere 
mechanical  work  for  Steele,  and  the  rest  to  your  creative 
genius."  She  stood  up  with  an  air  of  frank  good- will. 
"You  see,  my  dear,  impractical  dreamer,  you  jump  from 

335 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

one  extreme  to  the  other.  That's  always  unwise.  Be 
moderate.  Go  back  to  your  hermitage  in  Bristol,  if  you 
like,  and  keep  on  with  your  beautiful  dreams.  Don't 
conjure  up  senseless  nightmares." 

Lloyd  was  staring  at  the  coals  with  haunted  eyes. 
Long  he  sat  there,  while  Dolly  moved  about  behind 
him.  Long  he  sat,  and  finally  mulled  it  over,  consider- 
ing her  well-expressed  suggestion,  and  wondering  if  it 
could  be  done,  and  hating  himself  for  the  wonder.  Mean- 
while, the  violinist  made  his  music,  and  the  sound  of  his 
instrument,  like  the  far-off  song  of  a  woman,  floated  soft- 
ly to  their  ears.  Lloyd  was  thinking  of  another  music, 
the  music  of  a  voice  like  a  violin.  He  was  thinking,  too, 
of  another  hearth,  another  fire. 

At  last  he  shook  his  head.  Once  again  home  truths 
and  the  unequivocal  adages  of  a  never-amendable  code 
came  to  the  rescue.  "No  man  can  serve  two  masters." 
"Ye  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon."  Yes,  yes;  it 
would  be  impossible  to  blend  the  two  selves  within  him. 
Yet  it  had  come  to  this :  either  he  must  attempt  to  do  so 
or  he  must  murder  the  lower,  even  if,  as  she  said,  by  so 
doing  he  annihilated  the  higher  from  the  world's  esteem. 
When  Hyde  died,  Jekyll  died  also.  Apparently  the  in- 
cubus was  on  him  still.  It  had  not  been  contained  in  a 
mere  bundle.  There  was  something  else  he  must  grap- 
ple with,  something  abstract  and  more  to  be  feared. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  dull  power.  "  I  re- 
fuse," he  said,  simply,  and  Dolly  laughed.  He  started 
for  the  door. 

"No;  don't  go,"  she  said,  with  apparent  unconcern, 
but  in  reality  hard  put  to  it  to  gain  time.  "Don't  go." 
She  stood  before  the  door.  "  I  can't  let  you.  If  this  is 
the  end,  M'sieur  Death,  I  still  can  be  merry.  Yes;  you 
are  Death — my  Death.  I  sha'n't  be  half  as  afraid  to  face 
Death  himself  as  I  am  to  face  the  exposure  of  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow,"  echoed  Enoch,  shuddering. 
336 


Hecate's    Breto 

"Yes,  or  the  next  day.  It's  got  to  come.  I  hate  you 
more  than  I  love  you — God's  truth!  But  I  love  myself 
yet  more,  and  it's  myself  that's  going  to  suffer."  Toss- 
ing her  head,  she  laughed  aloud  with  rippling  melody. 
"Nevertheless,  thank  Heaven,  I  still  do  that.  You  see, 
I  still  can  laugh.  The  crystal  bell  in  me  tinkles  even 
while  you,  M'sieur  Worse-than-Death,  are  killing  me. 
Well,  well;  we  die  together.  You  are  a  second — who 
was  it? — yes,  my  Angel,  you  are  a  second  Sardanapalus." 
She  was  talking  against  time,  and  the  peculiar,  tinselled 
brilliance  of  her  language  held  him.-  The  blood  of  the 
French  poet  had  certainly  dribbled  down  to  her.  "A 
second  Sardanapalus!  About  you  and  your  consort," 
she  pursued,  in  a  voice  of  half -real,  half -mock  heroics, 
"the  palace  of  your  hope  is  burning.  We  stand  in  the 
midst  of  the  flame,  together."  For  once  she  was  im- 
provising, instead  of  quoting  with  only  a  feigned  spon- 
taneity some  earlier  coup  of  effect.  "This  is  a  con- 
flagration of  the  soul  —  a  conflagration  set  to  music. 
Listen."  The  voice  of  the  violin,  at  the  far  end  of  the 
drawing-room,  could  be  heard  faintly.  Now  and  again  it 
rose,  as  if  in  a  human  cry.  "Thus  I  have  him  fiddle," 
smiled  Dolly,  "while  we  burn.  That's  what  I  call  Ne- 
ronian.  But  even  Nero  could  not  have  done  that.  He 
fiddled  only  while  others  were  being  cooked.  And  yet, 
listen.  We  cry  aloud  in  the  flame."  .  .  . 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  laughed  and  laughed,  till 
her  whole  body  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  gesture  of  bur- 
lesque. "What  arrant  idiocy!  I  believe  I  am  stark 
mad."  She  started,  and  gazed  at  him  wonderingly. 
"  Or  else  I'm  as  much  a  genius  as  you.  Your  genius  is  in 
me.  That's  it!  I  share  the  spark  in  common  with  you. 
And  this  is  the  spark  that  starts  our  palace  burning." 

She  paused.  A  light  rap  had  sounded  on  the  door  be- 
hind her.  Instantly  her  tightened  nerves  relaxed  with 
relief,  but  she  appeared  only  to  wonder  who  had  dared 

337 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

to  interrupt  their  t6te-a-t£te.  She  opened  the  door  in- 
dignantly. 

There  stood  Felice,  holding  out  a  long  envelope.  "  Par- 
don, ma'm'selle,  but  this  is  from  Mr.  Steele's  office,  and 
the  messenger  will  not  go.  He  says  it  is  very  urgent,  as 
the  magazine  is  going  to  press.  He  wants  it  approved." 

Through  the  open  doorway,  from  the  far  end  of  the 
drawing-room,  came  the  strains  of  the  violin,  louder 
and  more  loud.  The  new  virtuoso,  a  true  master,  was 
playing  at  the  moment  in  quick  agitato.  It  seemed  as 
though  his  heart  and  the  heart  of  his  instrument  had 
suddenly  gone  wild  together.  The  music  suggested  a 
masque  of  the  Furies,  low  in  air. 

Dolly  nodded  to  Felice,  took  the  envelope,  and  closed 
the  door.  The  music  was  hushed;  the  Furies  were  ap- 
parently appeased.  Tearing  open  the  flap,  she  drew  out 
a  roll  of  long  and  narrow  sheets,  which  Lloyd  immediate- 
ly recognized  as  the  galley-proofs  of  a  printer.  "Oh," 
she  said,  "this  is  my  article  for  the  April  number  of  The 
Crowd."  She  unrolled  the  proofs  slowly  and  drew  off 
the  topmost  sheet,  taking  care  to  conceal  the  face  of  the 
next,  which,  like  all  beneath  it,  was  devoid  of  a  single 
letter.  Of  course,  she  had  not  had  time  to  write  the 
article  in  two  minutes,  but  a  roll  of  blank  galley-slips, 
if  handled  carefully,  would  be  exceedingly  convincing. 
Besides  which,  the  topmost  strip  was  a  genuine  proof- 
sheet.  The  two  minutes  in  her  dressing-room  had  suf- 
ficed for  the  composition  of  an  appropriate  heading  to 
the  article.  "This  is  a  proof,"  she  laughed,  handing  it 
to  him,  "of  her  majesty's  resolve." 

He  read  the  clear  capitals  again  and  again: 

"A  JEKYLL  AND  HYDE  IN  LITERATURE. 

STRANGE    CASE    OF    A    DUAL    IDENTITY." 

"(The  following  remarkable  confession  serves  to  illustrate 
forcibly  the  old  saying  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.)" 

338 


Hecate's   Bretu 

Lloyd's  glance  wandered  vaguely  about  the  room  till 
it  rested  at  last  on  the  table  near  the  divan.  Then,  to  her 
surprise  and  delight,  he  appeared  to  be  seized  by  a  sud- 
den, unprecedented  impulse.  Making  straight  for  the 
table  where  stood  the  punch-bowl,  he  tossed  down  two 
glassfuls  of  her  concoction  in  quick  succession.  His 
hand  shook.  "Show  me  the  rest  of  it;  show  me  the 
worst." 

"No,  no;  you  will  see  it  in  a  few  days,  when  the  mag- 
azine comes  out." 

"  Give  it  to  me."  He  was  staring  at  the  clear  capitals 
of  the  page  in  hand. 

She  said  nothing,  in  order  not  to  emphasize  her  refusal. 
But  her  silence  produced  an  undesirable  effect.  He  tore 
up  the  slip  and  dropped  the  scraps  from  his  trembling 
fingers,  then  advanced  on  her  with  a  dull,  slow  pur- 
pose. In  another  instant  he  shot  out  his  hand  towards 
the  roll  in  hers.  Eluding  him,  she  started  for  the  door. 
He  stepped  before  it  and  vowed  he  would  have  the  paper. 
Thereupon  she  laughed  again  immoderately,  crossed  to 
the  hearth,  and  flung  the  precious  proof-sheets  into  the 
fire,  where,  with  a  poker,  she  prodded  them  deep  be- 
tween two  live  coals. 

Then  she  turned  with  scoffing  eyes.  "How  absurd 
you  are!  What  does  it  matter?  The  thing  is  in  type. 
Burning  the  proofs  makes  no  difference.  They've 
been  read,  of  course,  for  mere  typographical  errors. 
All  I  have  to  do  is  to  send  word  they  need  no  cor- 
rection. There's  no  necessity  of  returning  the  sheets 
themselves.  Funny  you  didn't  think  of  that,  isn't 
it?" 

Lloyd  pulled  himself  together  as  best  he  could.  When 
he  had  burned  the  manuscript  there  had  seemed  to  be  a 
sure  finality  in  the  act,  yet  now  that  he  had  caused  her 
similarly  to  burn  the  proofs  of  his  duplicity  the  deed 
meant  nothing.  He  was  vainly  seeking  to  destroy  in- 

339 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

destructible  testimony  against  him.  The  type  still  stood, 
and  soon  the  presses  would  print  and  the  world  would 
know.  Marion  would  hear. 

He  listened  for  the  voice  of  the  violin,  as  if  now  in  need 
of  its  cadences.  It  was  silent.  His  thoughts  ran  on 
without  even  the  amelioration  of  a  chance  accompani- 
ment. 

Yes,  the  type  still  stood,  and  soon  the  presses  would 
print  and  the  world  would  know.  Marion  would  hear. 
Marion!  Marion! 

The  clear  capitals  of  the  heading  which  was  to  tell  the 
public  of  Enoch  Lloyd  and  Dolly  Cohen  seemed  to  be 
printed  on  his  brain.  Once  more  a  material  object  piv- 
oted his  character  and  set  it  teetering  betwixt  good  and 
ill.  If  the  sight  of  the  dog  had  brought  him  a  right- 
eous impulse,  the  sight  of  those  capital  letters  weakened 
him  into  even  considering  the  expediency  of  surrender. 
Although  he  had  foreseen  what  sort  of  an  article  she 
would  write,  although  he  had  imagined  the  sensational 
style  of  her  so-called  confession — a  confession  that  would 
surely  ruin  them  both — he  had  been  able  to  close  his 
mind  to  the  bare  fact  until  now,  now  when  it  stared  him 
in  the  face — cold  print!  She  had  read  his  nature  with 
singular  acuteness.  Despite  his  visionary  way  he  need- 
ed something  definite  to  lead  him.  In  spite  of  his  now 
famous  flights  into  an  abstract  philosophy,  concrete  ob- 
jects worked  with  remarkable  power  on  his  impression- 
able temperament — especially  so  if  they  were  flashed  on 
him  suddenly  and  could  be  used  as  a  means  by  which  to 
penetrate  the  vapors  wherein  he  managed  to  screen  his 
soul.  Yes,  she  had  read  him  aright.  When  again  he 
had  recourse  to  the  witch's  broth,  she  felt  certain  of  the 
victory. 

"Then  Steele  knows."  The  comment  came  in  a  dull 
voice  from  the  vicinity  of  the  punch-bowl,  into  which  he 
gazed  unseeingly,  as  though  striving  to  read  beneath  the 

340 


Hecate's   Breto 

ruby  surface  the  true  ingredients  in  the  witch's  caldron. 
With  a  smile  this  dark  Hecate  watched  him.  She  was 
recalling  the  weird  spell-chant  of  her  prototype. 

' '  Eye  of  newt  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat  and  tongue  of  dog." 

The  grotesquely  infernal  recipe  greatly  diverted  her 
fancy. 

"For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble." 

She  laughed  softly  to  herself.  "No,  Matthew  Steele 
is  ignorant  of  it.  I've  left  out  one  paragraph  till  the  very 
last  moment.  It's  not  yet  set  up.  As  the  story  is  told, 
it  leaves  our  identity  in  doubt.  I've  omitted  names. 
But  this  final  paragraph,  which  I'm  going  to  send  down 
by  the  messenger,  is  quite  enough :  '  The  author  who  has 
thus  debased  his  art  has  suddenly  grown  famous  in  Eng- 
land.' That,  you  see,  will  make  it  plain  as  day — dark 
as  night.  Now,  what  do  you  say?" 

"  I  say  that  Steele  will  not  allow  such  an  article  to  go 
out  of  his  office.  The  thing  is  a  libel." 

She  shook  her  head  with  indulgent  pity,  as  though 
really  sorry  for  the  grasper  at  straws.  "Oh,  he  won't 
stop  it.  His  brain  is  muddled  nowadays.  He's  drunk 
with  absinthe  and  infatuation — the  poor  March  Hare." 
She  started  to  leave.  "Excuse  me  a  second.  I  must 
give  them  the  final  paragraph." 

She  opened  the  door  and  paused  for  an  instant  on  the 
threshold.  Why  did  she  hesitate,  he  wondered,  and  she, 
too,  asked  herself  that  question.  Was  it  only  because 
she  could  not  face  the  gibes  of  the  popular  weekly  and  of 
all  the  rest  who  would  be  laughing  in  their  sleeves  at 
Dolly  Cohen,  the  thief  of  fame?  Or  was  it —  Yes, 
perhaps  so.  His  very  presence  seemed  to  make  her  play 

34i 


The   Triumph   of  Life 

the  fool.  Away  with  such  weakness,  such  despicable 
folly!  Sooner  or  later  it  would  tell  on  her  nerves. 

She  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Stop,"  said  Enoch,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  turned  back  to  him. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  suggest,"  he  told  her,  in  the  toneless 
accents  of  a  struggle  for  self-control.  "  If  I  don't  before 
the  summer,  you  can  tell  the  world."  His  eyes  were 
vague  with  the  stuff  of  her  brewing.  His  lips  continued 
to  move  after  he  had  spoken.  He  swayed. 

She  smiled  on  him  with  charming  beneficence.  "You 
promise?" 

"Yes." 

"On  your  honor?" 

"If  I  don't,  you  can  expose  me." 

"Then  kneel  at  the  prie-dieu." 

"Never!     What  blasphemy!" 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  muttered;  "an  oath  is  sacred." 
But  she  did  not  insist.  Perhaps  she  dimly  recognized 
the  infamy  of  her  suggestion,  or  more  probably  she  con- 
sidered it  inexpedient  to  offend  what  she  termed  his 
"verdant  sensibilities." 

Lloyd  stood  looking  at  her  from  the  corner  near  the 
bowl  of  punch.  The  fulness  of  life  had  left  him.  Per- 
haps it  was  never  before  in  his  existence  at  so  low  an  ebb 
as  in  that  moment.  He  had  quailed  before  the  stigma. 
The  capitals  proclaiming  him  a  swindler  were  cast  in  his 
soul.  The  pride  of  his  entire  being  had  shrunk  from  the 
threatened  wound.  Seemingly  he  was  now  overridden 
by  the  powers  of  darkness ;  the  fair,  white  hosts  had  left 
him  to  his  fate.  His  eyes  swam  with  misery.  He  was 
draining  the  dregs  of  his  bitterness — the  lees  of  wrong. 
And  this,  together  with  the  actual  intoxicant,  almost  un- 
manned him.  This  and  Hecate's  brew  seethed  in  his 
brain.  He  swayed  unsteadily — alas!  a  pitiable  object, 
punished,  the  world  might  have  said,  beyond  his  due. 

342 


Hecate's   Breto 

But,  dimly,  he  himself  knew  better.  In  his  depths  he 
acknowledged  the  justice  of  Heaven.  He  alone  could 
estimate  the  fall.  He  knew  what  he  might  have  been, 
he  knew  what  he  was,  and  he  wanted  to  drown  that 
knowledge. 

Dolly  pushed  an  electric  bell.  Instantly  Felice  ap- 
peared. "See  Mr.  Steele  yourself.  Tell  him  it  is  all  a 
mistake.  My  article  must  on  no  account  appear.  Tell 
him  /  say  so."  With  a  nod  Felice  withdrew,  and  her 
mistress,  closing  the  door,  locked  it. 

Dolly  turned  about  in  a  transport'  of  delight.  Enoch 
contrived  a  smile  to  prove  himself  without  a  pang. 
Abandoning  her  mind  to  relief,  his  conqueror  dropped  to 
the  divan.  Her  victim  stood  over  her  unsteadily.  If  he 
had  sold  himself  to  the  devil  he  would  make  the  best  of 
his  purchaser.  A  new-come  spirit  of  evil  in  him  egged 
him  on  to  excess.  He  had  gone  so  far,  why  not  go  far- 
ther? Everything  was  beautiful,  even  the  wrong.  He 
laughed  at  her  crushed  blossoms.  His  eyes,  seeming  to 
delight  in  the  dishevelment  of  her  pure  white  chiffon, 
suggested  a  nature  now  recklessly  dishevelled,  too.  He 
combed  back  his  hair  with  his  fingers,  then  pulled  it  down 
to  his  eyebrows.  Dolly  was  bewitched  by  the  metamor- 
phosis. The  unkempt  bang  changed  him  amazingly. 
Nevertheless,  he  maintained  a  ponderous  gravity.  He 
was  fighting  for  a  steadier  balance,  but  his  brain  swam. 
Never  before  had  his  reason  reeled.  Now  that  the  fierce 
moot  question  had  been  disposed  of,  only  two  facts  re- 
mained in  his  mind.  Deep  in  him  he  felt  the  fear  of  a 
terrible  loss.  This  very  evening  he  had  all  but  lost  his 
ideal,  her  whom  he  had  once  called  the  savior  of  his 
hope.  Almost,  he  had  sacrificed  her  respect  and  his  own 
with  it.  So  said  his  brain,  with  exaggerated  remorse. 
The  memory  of  that  mad  forfeiture  was  driving  him  even 
madder  than  the  act,  for  here,  in  the  place  of  the  thing 
sacrificed,  he  had  gained  something  else.  He  had  gained 

343 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

another  woman's  passion.  Another  woman ?  Oh,  God; 
his  brain  must,  indeed,  be  reeling  to  couple  those  two 
together!  .  .  .  And  yet  this  little  sorceress  was  by  no 
means  really  bad.  She  was  not  of  the  kind  he  had  al- 
ways avoided.  No  one  could  convict  her  of  evil.  O'Brien 
and  Steele  had  told  him  so.  His  youth  seemed  to  be 
caught  by  the  fact  of  her  actual  innocence.  She  was,  in 
a  way,  an  anomaly,  an  exception  most  dangerous  to  a 
man  of  his  age  and  nature. 

Perhaps  never  till  now  had  Dolly  so  keenly  appreciated 
her  advantage  over  other  women  of  the  night.  Possibly 
it  was  for  this  very  moment  that  she  had  said  "no"  so 
often. 

Softly  from  the  drawing-room  came  once  more  the 
voice  of  the  violin,  but  now  in  low,  sensuous  allurement. 

Could  she  have  planned  this  whole  accompaniment? 
Had  she  foreseen  each  successive  phase?  Probably  yes. 
There  was  no  trick,  no  magic,  no  proof  of  prescience  he 
would  not,  in  his  present  obscure  condition,  have  as- 
cribed to  her  acumen.  He  smiled.  Her  majesty  was 
so  theatric.  She  evidently  was  never  contented  without 
the  accessories,  and  an  appropriate  mise-en-scene.  Her 
majesty!  He  laughed  to  himself  at  the  title.  His  cloud- 
ed intelligence  was  slowly  being  colored  with  ludicrous 
impressions,  as  though  the  comic  cartoonist  had  come 
and  daubed  them  on  his  mind. 

He  held  up  his  glass  and  gazed  at  it  with  an  endeavor 
after  easy  freedom.  When  he  emptied  it  he  laughed 
aloud.  "  Your  majesty,"  he  asked,  thickly,  "what  would 
you?" 

She  thrust  her  hands  to  her  hair  and  rumpled  it  in 
sheer  abandon,  then  raised  her  sensuous  arms  to  him  and 
whispered,  "I  want  your  love.  I  want  you  —  you!  I 
love  you.  Give  me  a  little  in  return.  Oh,  boy — boy — 
I  do  love  you." 

Gradually  her  influence  gained  ground.  Now  that  it 

344 


Hecate's   Breto 

no  longer  stood  for  a.  menace,  the  sorcery  of  the  enchant- 
ress was  brought  into  full  play.  It  seemed  to  be  the  very 
shadows  of  her  hair  and  eyes  that  tried  to  ravish  him — 
the  very  midnight  of  their  depths. 

Gradually  the  strains  of  the  violin  and  the  liquid  fire  of 
her  brew  got  into  his  veins  and  into  his  soul.  He  knew 
little.  The  moment  was  utterly  unreal. 

But  suddenly,  when  he  was  leaning  closer,  he  started, 
drew  back,  and  uttered  an  all  but  inaudible  moan.  As  if 
lit  up  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  sharp  and  vivid  amid  the 
chaos  of  his  brain,  he  seemed  to  see  Marion  standing 
again  before  him,  swaying  like  a  flame  in  a  wind. 

Dolly  raised  her  arms  to  him.  He  staggered  back. 
The  mental  picture  had  broken  her  spell.  This  and  the 
voice  of  that  sure  life  in  him,  which,  though  now  at  so  low 
an  ebb,  was  yet  assertive,  availed  to  guard  him  from  a 
mortal  degradation. 

Turning,  he  unlocked  and  opened  the  door  and  fled 
headlong  through  the  drawing-room  to  the  hall,  so  blindly 
that  the  guests  believed  him  insane  with  drinking.  One 
and  all  they  stared  after  him  in  contemptuous  curiosity 
The  lambs  looked  frightened,  as  though  fearing  a  similar 
fate.  The  Snark  giggled  behind  her  fan.  The  Walrus, 
who  had  been  compelled  to  sit  and  listen  to  his  rival, 
tried  in  vain  to  smile.  Nobody  showed  the  slightest 
sympathy — save  one.  This  was  Bonhomme.  Cocking 
an  eye  after  the  miserable,  lurching  figure,  he  seemed  to 
consider  the  case  and  soon  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  the  stagger.  Lifting  his  nose  towards  the  ceiling,  he 
uttered  a  prolonged  whine. 

Dolly  emerged  from  her  sanctuary.  When  the  door 
closed  behind  her  captive  she  nodded  to  Sennacherib, 
as  who  should  say,  "I've  kept  my  word  and  punished 
him." 

"Shaprishti!"  exclaimed  the  befuddled  hero.  "Bra- 
vish'mo!"  And  the  lady  of  the  larynx  tittered  the  more. 

345 


The  Triumph   of  Life 

Dolly's  smile  bespoke  triumph  tinged  with  bitterness, 
but  the  bitterness  was  lost  on  their  soggy  brains.  Her 
courtiers  laughed  boisterously  at  the  expense  of  the  guest 
thus  fittingly  sped,  and  clapped  their  hands  in  applause. 
Rushing  to  the  piano,  the  bubbling  Herr  Wunderlich 
loudly  struck  up  "Hail,  Columbia!"  much  to  the  general 
delight. 

The  laughter  and  clapping  and  hammered  music  fol- 
lowed Enoch  long  and  persistently,  as  though  the  medley 
had  awakened  an  echo  in  his  ears. 

Through  the  midst  of  their  mockery  rang  the  sound  of 
that  thin,  unhuman  cry — the  dog's  whine. 

"You're  a  trump,"  said  Dolly  to  Steele,  as  they  sat 
apart  in  the  dining-room.  "  I  really  believe  I  love  you. 
So  you  brought  back  the  proof  yourself."  She  was  look- 
ing down  into  a  lavender  pasteboard  box  trimmed  with 
ribbons.  In  a  moment  she  tipped  her  chair  back  and 
daintily  munched  a  rectangular  morsel  of  nougat.  "I 
really  believe  I  love  you." 

Matthew  frowned  jealously.  "  You'd  better  drop  him 
for  good.  And  where  did  you  find  this  violinist?  I'm 
no  judge,  that's  sure;  but  they  say  he  is  really  a  marvel. 
Now,  why  should  he  come  here?  He's  above  this 
crowd." 

Dolly  laughed,  and,  grisette  -  like,  licked  her  fingers. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  paid  him!" 


Book    IV 


WHEN  the  spring  came  to  Bristol  it  brought  the 
Lees.  Like  the  blossoms  and-wild  flowers,  feath- 
ered visitors,  foliage,  and  all  other  tokens  of  sunshine, 
they  seemed  an  inherent  part  of  the  season.  When  the 
shutters  of  the  long,  white  house  were  open,  summer  was 
not  far  off.  People  watched  their  advent  much  as  they 
regarded  the  coming  of  the  fish-hawk — Rhode  Island's 
best-loved  bird — with  a  ready  welcome  from  the  heart. 
What  if  they  lived  aloof  near  the  shore?  So  did  the 
fish-hawks.  What  if  they  shunned  the  town?  Spring, 
too,  was  somewhat  shy  of  it. 

One  morning,  early  in  May,  when  spring  no  longer  hint- 
ed of  summer,  but  heralded  her  coming,  Marion  stood  in 
the  orchard  receiving  the  advance  retinue  of  the  year's 
queen.  She  was  listening  to  the  songs  of  the  equerries 
in  air,  the  camping  of  outriders  in  the  leafage.  She 
was  watching  courtiers  come,  or  seem  to  come,  through 
the  fields  and  up  the  slope — violets,  buttercups,  Bethle- 
hem stars — a  fine  array,  with  the  hosts  of  grass  all  bend- 
ing towards  her  under  the  breeze,  as  if  in  approach  and 
homage.  But  Marion's  eyes  seemed  to  greet  the  elfin 
ambassadors  as  though  she  were  the  lowliest  of  their 
sovereign's  subjects,  and  yet  with  a  look  of  passionate 
allegiance.  Whatever  there  was  of  motley  in  the  or- 
chard— brazen  dandelions,  pompous  robins,  blossom-en- 
filleted  satyrs  and  Pans — she  saw  this  spring  for  the  first 

349 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

time.  Humor  had  come  to  her  ken  of  the  earth.  Nat- 
ure was  growing  more  intimate.  The  earth  '.vas  be- 
coming the  world.  It  inspired  the  smile  of  a  familiar, 
not  only  the  prayer  of  a  devotee. 

The  night  before  had  been  cold  and  foggy — winter's 
ghost  returning  to  haunt  spring.  This  morning  that 
ghost  was  laid;  the  fog  had  receded  to  the  sea;  the  sun 
shone.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  blue. 

Somehow,  there  was  more  liberality,  more  breadth, 
more  all-embracing  fulness  of  life  in  the  love  she  was  giv- 
ing her  primordial  mother.  Yes,  the  earth  was  becom- 
ing the  world.  The  dwellings  of  the  soul  are  three  in 
succession:  the  earth,  the  world,  the  sky.  In  each  there 
is  something  of  the  other.  Of  course,  there  was  much  of 
heaven  here  on  earth,  and  better  yet,  she  told  herself 
with  a  very  human  daring,  better  yet,  there  would  be 
things  of  the  earth  in  heaven. 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Marion  considered  her 
present  abiding-place — this  court  of  aerial  outriders, 
violets,  buttercups,  Bethlehem  stars  —  an  exceedingly 
satisfactory  habitation,  no  less  so,  but  all  the  more  so, 
because  of  its  great,  free  humor,  its  humanity  evinced  in 
the  strutting  robin  and  rollicking,  blossom -chapleted 
orchard;  its  gayety  as  well  as  its  gravity,  its  humanity  as 
well  as  its  divinity;  in  short,  this  eternal  medley,  beauti- 
ful, ugly,  tragic,  humorous,  all-comprehensive,  incom- 
prehensible, the  divine  What-is-it,  which  by  but  one  race 
on  one  small  planet  is  called  life. 

She  was  now  in  nature  almost  a  woman.  Therefore, 
when  the  message  Arcadian  was  followed  that  morning 
by  a  message  human,  she  lent  not  only  ears  to  the  mes- 
senger but  a  heart  as  well. 

At  the  old  stone  dock — that  dock  where  her  boat  and 
her  memory  strained  together  at  their  moorings — Ezra 
Slocum,  the  light-ship's  master,  had  left  his  skiff.  She 
saw  the  crotchety  old  molluscan  approaching  by  the 

350 


Ttoo   Masters 

lane.  Once  before  he  had  come  to  her  thr.s  on  a  warm, 
fair  morning,  and  in  his  hand  he  had  borne  a  letter.  She 
knew  its  words  by  heart.  "You  will  be  my  muse,"  it 
had  told  her,  in  conclusion,  "encouraging  and  uplifting 
me  to  higher  endeavor  always.  You  can  do  that — your 
eyes  can,  your  voice  can,  your  mind  and  spirit  can — 
then  do!  I  need  you.  I  seem  to  exist  only  for  your  an- 
swer. Enoch  Lloyd." 

Yes,  she  remembered  every  word.  They  were  all 
moored  fast  at  the  dock  of  memory.  And  here  again 
was  Ezra  Slocum  coming  from  the  shore. 

With  a  look  of  wonder  she  went  to  meet  him  at  the 
orchard  gate.  They  talked  across  the  rails,  she  leaning 
on  the  topmost,  he  standing  in  the  lane,  first  on  one  *oot, 
then  on  the  other,  uneasy  and  perplexed.  For  several 
minutes  he  hemmed  and  hawed  and  nodded  and  wel- 
comed her  back,  his  tongue  fidgeting  with  his  quid,  his 
sunken  eyes  evading  the  clear,  large  pair  that  studied 
him.  But  Marion  indulged  his  irrelevancies  with  a  good 
grace,  knowing  this  much  of  native,  shore-dwelling  New- 
Englanders:  though  they  speak  slowly,  they  speak  out. 
If  they  come  with  something  to  say,  they  say  it  before 
they  go. 

In  this  she  was  not  wrong.  The  visit  of  Slocum  con- 
firmed her  perception.  For  a  time,  however,  he  must 
needs  procrastinate  with  talk  of  himself  and  his  own 
trouble. 

"  Yas,  I'm  right  enough  in  health,"  he  told  her,  in  reply 
to  her  interest,  "but  in  mind  not  so  good — partly  owing 
to  the  light-ship.  They're  goin'  to  move  her  away." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Marion;  "but  won't — " 

"Oh  yas,  they'll  have  a  light  thar  jest  the  same — a 
stationary  light-house  built  on  the  shoals.  It's  cheaper, 
says  Uncle  Sam,  and  the  ship's  wore  out.  So  will  I  be 
soon,  mebbe.  But  it's  kinder  hard,  though  they  say  ez 
how  I'll  git  the  new  light  ef  I  want  it." 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"Of  course,"  said  Marion — "of  course  you  will." 

"Mebbe  so,"  pursued  the  old  cuttle-fish,  grumpily, 
"but  you  see  now  why  I'm  outer  sorts — or  partly  you 
do." 

"How  do  you  mean  'partly'?"  she  queried,  growing 
slightly  uneasy  herself,  or  no  imaginable  cause. 

"I  mean,"  replied  Slocum,  at  last — "  I  mean  I  be  here 
to  tell  you  Mr.  Lloyd  hez  come." 

Marion  started,  flushing  visibly.     "Did  he  send — 

Ezra  eyed  her  drooping  lashes.  "  No,  but  I  thought  's 
how  I'd  got  to  tell  you — the  reason  bein' — bein' — wal,  I 
thought  it  'd  be  good  ef  you  could  see  the  boy!"  He 
tightened  his  leathery  lips  and  smiled  at  her.  "  Thar 
now,  I've  said  it!"  With  which  emphatic  expression  of 
relief  the  light-ship's  master  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"Captain  Slocum,"  called  Marion. 

For  an  instant  he  hesitated  without  turning  back, 
then  walked  away  from  her.  Evidently  he  was  no  re- 
specter of  persons,  and  quite  as  evidently  he  might  have 
said  much  more. 

Swinging  open  the  gate,  Marion  joined  him,  smoth- 
ered her  pride,  and  walked  beside  him  down  the  lane. 
"When  did  Mr.  Lloyd  return?" 

"Three  days  ago." 

Marion  glanced  at  the  Mount  Hope  shore.  "But  I 
have  seen  no  light,"  she  meditated,  aloud,  "and  not  a 
sign  of  him." 

Slocum  again  shook  his  head.  "  'Course  you  heven't. 
Thet's  it.  Thar  beunt  any  light,  nur  any  sign.  I've 
laid  eyes  on  him  only  jest  once — lars  night  it  were. 
That's  why  I  come  over  here  this  mornin'."  He  stopped 
and  turned  to  her  shortly.  "You're  a  friend  of  his'n, 
ain't  you?" 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"A  good  friend?"  Slocum  made  bold  to  ask. 

"Yes." 

352 


"Wai,  I  j edged  ez  much  by  him  sending  you  the  letter 
which  I  carried  here  lars  summer.  And  you,  when  you 
read  it,  lookin'  so — but  thet  don't  matter.  Leastwise, 
it  ain't  to  be  spoken  of."  He,  too,  glanced  across  the 
cove,  then  beckoned  her  aside  to  the  shade  of  the  trees 
mysteriously.  "I  wouldn't  like  him  to  see  me  talkin'. 
Mebbe  he'll  be  out  in  his  skiff,  but  I  don't  guess  so." 

Marion  seated  herself  on  the  low,  rambling  stone  wall 
beside  the  lane,  but  even  before  he  had  spoken  she  was 
on  her  feet  again.  Something  compelled  her  to  stand. 
"Is  there  anything  wrong?" 

Slocum's  wizened  brow  was  lined  with  innumerable 
wrinkles.  "Yas  'n'  no — mostly  yas,  I  jedge,  now  I've 
seen  him.  Lars  night  he  rowed  up  to  the  light-ship  and 
come  aboard.  'Wai,  Enoch,  boy,'  says  I;  'by  cracky! 
you  here?'  but  he  never  smiled — which  ain't  him,  or 
warn't."  The  light-ship's  master  shifted  his  quid  and 
his  balance,  looking  up  at  the  apple-trees  as  though  wish- 
ing he  could  pick  his  words  therefrom,  then  down  in 
silence  helplessly.  So  tortuous  are  the  ways  of  speech  to 
a  born  molluscan.  Nevertheless,  he  floundered  on  per- 
sistently in  behalf  of  his  idol,  and  as  he  talked,  his  pecu- 
liar crabbed  love  for  Enoch  gave  him  a  certain  facility 
seldom  possible  till  now.  It  was  as  though  the  thou- 
sand knots  were  suddenly  untied. 

"Yes,  suthin'  is  wrong — thet's  what,  or  I  don't  know 
him.  Wai,  it  war  five  minutes  agin  ten  o'clock  when  he 
come  aboard,  and  he  stayed  till  near  mornin'.  But  most 
of  the  time  what  does  he  do — him  as  used  to  be  so  cocky 
and  gaylike?  He  walks  the  deck  and  shivers  in  the  fog 
— a  kind  of  marchin'  ghost — and  looks  up  and  looks 
down  and  says  nothin',  till  suddenly  he  stops  in  front  of 
me.  'Do  you  like  this  work?'  he  asks.  'Do  you  like 
this  shiftin'  about  with  the  tide  and  botherin'  with  the 
light  night  after  night,  year  in  year  out — so  lonely?  Do 
you  like  goin'  on  a  voyage  at  anchor,  never  getting  any- 
*3  353 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

whar?  Do  you  like  it?  Now  tell  me.'  'Wai,  now,' 
says  I,  '  what's  the  matter?  I  do  and  I  don't.  Suppose 
I  do?  What  would  you  say?  Suppose  I  don't — what 
then?  You  seem  to  take  it  terrible  earnest.' 

"'Yas — earnest,'  says  he,  in  a  voice  like  you  never 
heerd,  a  kind  of  heart  - breakin'  voice.  'Terrible  ear- 
nest. Do  you  like  hearin'  the  wind  raise  hell  at  night, 
and  the  sea  worse  'n  hell?  Do  you  like  this  blindin'  fog, 
these  walls  of  gray  nothin'ness?'  Them  were  his  own 
words.  '  Walls  of  gray  nothin'ness.  Do  you  like  bein' 
shifted  about  unsteady — pointin'  every  which  way?' 

"  '  Wai,'  says  I,  'this  shiftin'  seems  to  be  on  your  mind. 
Now  don't  trouble  about  Ezra  Slocum.  The  light-ship's 
goin'  to  be  towed  away,'  says  I, '  and  a  little,  round  house 
here  on  the  rock  instead  of  it — a  house  right  out  here  in 
the  water,  and  me  in  it!' 

"'What,'  says  he,  'a  house?'  Then  he  laughs,  acid- 
like.  '  You're  in  luck,  thet's  what.  You're  dead  in  luck. 
No  more  rockin'  and  shiftin'.  You'll  be  steady  as  a 
church.  No  tides  nur  currents  swingin'  you  round,' 
says  he.  'No  weak  imitation  of  a  voyage,'  says  he,  in 
them  words.  'No  make-believe.' 

"Then  up  and  down  the  deck  he  goes  marching  ag'in, 
like  a  lonesome,  lost  soul,  as  gray  as  the  fog,  till  I  thought 
he'd  never  stop.  But  he  did.  Suddenly  he  halts  in 
front  of  me  and  his  voice  was  different.  '  Ezra.,'  he  says, 
'  do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  come  out  here  when  I 
war  a  kid  and  tend  light  for  you?' 

"'I  do  thet,'  says  I.  '  You  war  mate,  you  said,  and  I 
said  you  war  the  best  mate  as  ever  come  aboard,  I  did, 
which  you  war  for  a  youngster.' 

"At  that  he  looks  up  at  the  light  a  moment,  then  he 
kinder  smiles,  rememberin'- like,  and  he  says,  'Ezra, 
turn  into  your  bunk.  I'll  do  it  once  more,  I  will — like 
then.' 

"'Mebbe  you'd  fall  asleep,'  says  I,  doubtful. 
354 


Ttoo   Masters 

"Asleep?"  he  laughs,  sourish.  'Not  I.  Sleep?  1 
don't  do  that  much  these  nights.' 

'  'The  light's  glass,'  says  I,  'needs  a  heap  of  watching. 
It  gets  clouded  with  the  heat  inside  and  the  cold  out,  and 
the  fog's  thet  thick  it  don't  show  up  good  unless  thar's 
a  man  sent  up  to  clean  it.' 

"But  he  on'y  smiles  and  nods  and  shoves  me  off.  ' I'll 
send  one  up,'  says  he,  'if  need  be.' 

"Wai,  I  seed  it  war  on  hi:  mind  to  do  it,  and  I  thought 
ez  how  he'd  feel  better  bein'  a  boy  ag'in,  so  I  turned  in, 
and  he  kep'  on  marchin'." 

Slocum  paused,  blinked,  and  hesitated. 

"Well?"  said  Marion  in  a  whisper. 

The  old  man  turned  as  if  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  go 
and  leave  the  rest  untold. 

"No,  no,"  objected  Marion,  "tell  me." 

He  stood  in  the  lane  looking  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
light-ship  till  at  last  the  vividness  of  the  episode  proved 
too  much  for  him,  and  he  recalled  it  aloud.  "  By  ginger, 
what  a  row  it  war!  I  woke  quick.  The  crew  and  cap- 
tain of  a  big  three-master  was  all  a-cursin'  when  I  come 
out.  I  seed  them  jumpin'  about  helter-skelter.  She 
war  a  big  un,  bound  for  Fall  River  with  a  load  of  coal,  and 
she  run  near  dead  on  us — thet's  what!  I  looked  at  the 
light.  Wai,  my  name  ain't  Ezra  Slocum  if  'twarn't  so 
dingy  you  couldn't  scarcely  see  it  from  whar  I  stood. 
The  glass  war  all  covered  with  sweat.  Up  forward  I 
hear  Enoch  calling  to  the  men,  crazified.  '  Come  up,' 
says  he,  '  they're  wrecked!  Good  God,  they're  wrecked!' 
And  the  crew  come  tumblin'  up,  and  the  other  crew  cursed 
their  lazy  hides,  and  said  they'd  report  us  to  the  Govern- 
ment. But  they  was  clear  of  the  shoal,  and  I  knowed  it. 
Wai,  sir,  what  did  Mr.  Lloyd  do?  He  come  up  to  me  and 
he  says,  says  he,  'Ezra,'  he  says,  'shoot  me!  I'm  no  use, 
no  earthly  use,'  he  says. 

"Bad  luck  !     I  guess  you  was  asleep,'  says  I,  try- 
355 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

in'  to  be  cross,  which  I  never  couldn't  with  him,  no- 
how. 

"'Asleep!' he  says.  'No,  Iwarn't.  I  war  doin' nothin' 
but  thinkin'.  I  clean  forgot.  I  guess  my  brain's  all 
wrong,'  says  he.  Them  was  his  very  words —  'My 
brain's  all  wrong  lately.' 

'"You  tended  light  better,'  I  says,  'when  you  was 
twelve.' 

"He  nodded,  and  looked  ez  how  he  could  'most  'a'  cried 
like  a  baby. 

"'Yas,  I  did;  yas,  I  did,'  he  'lowed,  with  a  kind  of  a 
sigh  like  a  sob. 

"'Wai,'  says  I,  'it's  all  right  now.  They're  back  in 
the  channel,  sure  enough.  But  I  calc'late,'  says  I,  'you 
ain't.' 

"'No,'  says  he;  'I  ain't.  The  light's  blurred.  The 
light's  near  invisible,'  he  says;  'and  somethin's  cursin' 
me  like  that  captain.  Oh,  Ezra,'  says  he;  then  he  turns 
about,  and,  never  sayin'  good-night,  he  slides  down  to  his 
skiff  and  disappears  in  the  fog." 

His  narrative  finished,  the  old  man  jerked  up  his  hand 
in  a  gesture  forbidding  comment. 

Small  need.  Marion,  turning  in  silence,  walked  slowly 
up  the  lane. 

"Remember,  you're  a  good  friend  to  Enoch,"  said  Slo- 
cum,  and  limped  away  to  the  old  stone  dock. 

This  was  the  first  of  several  reports  from  Slocum  con- 
cerning the  hermit  of  Mount  Hope,  his  altered  demeanor, 
his  unaccountable  moroseness  and  enigmatical  meta- 
phors, in  which  the  currents,  the  tide,  and  Slocum's  poor 
imitation  of  a  voyage,  seeming  to  have  fixed  in  his  mind 
a  dark  analogy,  suggested  some  hidden  tragedy  of  his 
life. 

"All  day  long,"  said  Slocum,  "he  taps  on  one  of  them 
typewriting-machines,  and  half  the  night  he  walks  the 
shore,  or  gits  into  his  skiff  and  rows  or  sails  roundabout 

356 


Ttoo   Masters 

to  nowhere.  And  if  he  smiles,  it's  a  smile  that  you  don't 
take  to — so  different  from  before." 

Soon  Mr.  Lee  was  admitted  to  these  confidences. 

"  Father,  did  you  know  Mr.  Lloyd  was  here?  Captain 
Slocum,  of  the  light-ship,  says  he  came  last  week,  and 
he's  killing  himself  with  work." 

Mr.  Lee  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "Don't  worry. 
Work  like  his  puts  life  into  a  man ;  it  never  hurts  any  one 
at  that  age.  So  he's  here  again.  Funny  he  should  not 
have  been  over  to  tell  me  about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"Oh,  I  wrote  to  him  in  New  York  two  months  ago, 
asking  him  to  write  us  another  book  as  soon  as  possible. 
You  see,  now  that  The  Greatest  Good  has  succeeded  so  re- 
markably here,  thanks  to  the  furore  in  London,  and  now 
that  his  name  is  made,  he  must  strike  while  the  iron's  hot, 
as  I  told  him  in  my  letter." 

"But,  father,  I  fear  it's  breaking  him  down.  He's  so 
changed,  Captain  Slocum  says.  He's  not  himself  at  all." 

"H-um.  Well,  of  course  he  will  come  to  see  us  soon, 
and  then  we'll  cheer  him  up  a  little.  Eh,  Maid  Marion, 
you  can  do  that,  can't  you?" 

She  flushed  hotly,  and,  as  the  days  went  by,  grew  so 
preoccupied  that  the  old  man  even  neglected  his  other 
children  —  his  happy  spring  gardening  —  in  conferring 
with  her  and  Slocum. 

Again  and  again  Marion  asked  herself  if  Enoch  really 
believed  that  she  hated  him.  Did  he  not  understand 
that  first  moment  of  her  awakening,  when  he  had  so 
madly  held  her  in  his  arms?  Did  he  not  know  that, 
though  she  had  spoken  of  hate  and  sent  him  from  her,  he 
had  made  her  his?  Yes;  he  had  stormed  and  won  her. 
And  yet,  at  first,  she  had  desperately  rebelled.  She  had 
not  been  able  to  believe,  all  in  one  moment,  that  love 
had  come  to  her.  But  now  she  knew,  yes,  knew  her 
heart,  with  all  the  clear,  eternal  certainty  of  which  that 

357 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

heart  was  capable.  Until  the  last  few  days  her  very 
spirit  had  seemed  to  be  lost  in  song — a  song  of  ineffable, 
world-transforming  joy  and  of  praise  to  God,  and  of 
notes  that  seemed  to  harmonize  with  His  universe. 
She  had  never  guessed  that,  in  the  cause  of  Enoch's 
fiery  burst  of  feeling,  there  had  existed  a.  world  of  emo- 
tion overlying  his  love.  To  the  passage  he  had  read 
her  from  the  manuscript  of  a  supposed  friend  she  had 
given  little  thought.  He  had  been  driven  to  reading  it 
by  her  coldness;  he  had  impetuously  gone  to  an  extreme. 
All  that  she  knew  thereafter,  and  all  she  cared  to  know, 
was  that  he  loved  her  and  she  loved  him.  Moreover, 
had  he  not  asked  her  to  forgive  him  for  so  wildly  calling 
her  into  life?  Forgive  him?  Often  since  she  had  smiled 
at  that  word  "forgive."  Yes,  yes;  she  could  readily  for- 
give him  for  having  made  the  world  a  heaven. 

But  why  had  he  neither  come  nor  written  ?  And  why, 
now  that  he  was  so  near,  did  he  keep  away?  Could  it 
really  be  that  he  feared  she  would  not  receive  him  ?  Her 
deductions,  drawn  from  Slocum's  disclosures,  pointed  to 
some  new  condition  of  mind,  some  troubling  influence  of 
which  she  knew  nothing.  It  was  now  that  his  question 
returned  to  her  forcibly,  that  disturbing  question  regard- 
ing the  effects  of  evil.  This,  however,  she  would  not 
dwell  upon  nor  consider  a  moment.  Instead,  she  told 
herself  he  was  working,  and  working  for  her,  and  that 
when  his  work  was  finished  he  would  come. 

But  the  days  passed  until  June  was  at  hand — only  a 
week  away — and  still  they  had  not  seen  him. 

Several  times  in  her  rambles  Marion  found  herself  half 
unconsciously  skirting  the  cove,  but  only  once  did  she 
yield  to  her  heart's  instinct. 

It  was  late  on  a  warm  afternoon,  and  the  song  within 
her  was  rising  and  swelling  as  though  soon  it  would  burst 
into  voice.  The  song  of  her  love  was  greeting  summer. 
And  of  summer  he  was  the  soul.  Through  the  meadows 

358 


Ttoo   Masters 

she  went  singing,  and  down  to  the  shore,  then  along  by 
the  water,  singing  and  treading  so  lightly  that  seemingly 
she  herself  belonged  amid  the  equerries  of  air.  Towards 
her  hatless  hair  the  sunlight  and  the  warm  wind  appear- 
ed, as  it  were,  to  be  homing,  as  if  they  had  sped  from  the 
west  for  this  alone.  And  the  wind  flurried  the  sunlight 
there  into  threads  of  wavering  flame.  Her  cheeks  were 
as  pink  as  wild-rose  petals,  and  her  eyes,  now  intent  on 
the  Mount  Hope  shore,  were  limpid  as  crystal  springs. 
Once  again  she  wore  her  favorite  stuff  and  color — a  linen 
of  russet  brown. 

From  the  shore  she  struck  into  the  woods  to  avoid  dis- 
covery. Here  the  new  grass  and  the  new  leafage  of  the 
undergrowth  and  the  maidenly  ferns,  just  beginning  to 
uncurl,  touched  her  ankles  softly  as  she  passed,  while 
to  her  step  the  springy  moss-beds,  edging  a  tiny  stream 
she  followed,  lent  the  motion  of  a  dryad. 

On  through  the  lengthening  shadows  the  brook  led 
her,  and  now  sang  the  only  song.  She  was  pleased  to  let 
it  sing  for  her;  the  spirit  of  its  melody  was  the  spirit  of 
hers.  The  shadows  were  growing  longer,  and  the  sun- 
shine fell  aslant  in  the  woods.  But  even  in  the  shadows 
she  found  delight.  Here  and  there  in  the  heart  of  them 
a  buttercup  lifted  its  head,  so  golden,  so  pure,  so  impal- 
pable-looking as  to  suggest  that  perhaps  a  ray  of  the  sun, 
lost  and  left  behind  by  its  fellows,  had  miraculously 
taken  root  and  flowered. 

Over  her  head  the  roof  of  leaves,  frescoed  with  green- 
gold  traceries,  rose  in  a  thousand  little  distances,  height 
on  height — surely  a  divine  fret-work.  Thence,  now  and 
again,  floated  down  the  notes  of  a  bird  singing  to  the 
blue.  The  spirit  of  his  song  was  the  spirit  of  the  brook's 
and  the  spirit  of  her  own. 

As  she  walked  she  looked  up  many  times  through  the 
interstices,  and  could  see  the  dome  that  surmounted 
the  fret -work.  Once  or  twice  a  pair  of  wings  crossed 

359 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

an  opening — inconceivably  high.  Thus  was  her  heart 
soaring. 

From  below  came  the  murmur  of  the  water  as  it  wooed 
the  shore.  Thus  was  the  heaven-drawn  tide  of  her  love 
invincibly  rising  to  meet  him. 

On  and  on  she  went,  mysteriously  enchanted  by  the 
inexpressible  liberty  of  her  bondage. 

Not  until  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  mystic  grove  in 
which  his  cabin  stood  did  Marion  pause  to  consider. 

If  only  she  could  see  him,  could  look  at  him  for  one 
moment,  she  would  rest  content.  Even  a  single  glimpse 
might  suffice  for  the  time  being. 

Hesitant,  she  skirted  the  opening  behind  his  hermitage, 
which  stood  in  the  centre,  facing  the  cove.  About  the 
walls  of  the  little  cottage  the  vines  ran  riot  with  new  life. 
While  she  stood  there  she  spied  a  wee  thing  awhir,  dart- 
ing in  and  out  amid  the  cabin's  leafy  mantle.  The  speck 
was  a  bumming-bird,  busy  with  building.  Presently  a 
tiny  swallow  flew  to  the  roof  from  the  woods  behind  her, 
and,  fluttering  thereover  with  a  twig  in  its  bill,  suddenly 
vanished  in  the  chimney. 

On  tiptoe  Marion 'crossed  the  opening  and  drew  near 
to  a  side  window.  Taking  courage,  she  peeped  in  at  the 
interior  of  his  workshop.  Through  the  opposite  window 
on  the  western  side  the  sunshine  flooded  in  at  a  gentle 
slope  straight  across  a  long  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  He  was  sitting  at  the  table,  pen  in  hand.  Its 
top  was  covered  with  loose  sheets  of  manuscript  thrown 
about,  apparently  at  random.  At  the  moment  of  her 
coming  he  seemed  to  be  idle  for  want  of  words.  She 
saw  his  profile  dark  against  the  sunlight.  His  eyes  were 
gazing  vacantly  through  the  doorway,  out  across  the  bay. 
Once  he  passed  a  hand  across  his  brow  and  brushed  back 
his  hair  with  the  old  motion  of  a  struggle  against  ab- 
straction. The  gesture  bespoke  the  sweeping  aside  of 
mental  vapors.  She  knew  it  well.  Once  he  bent  to  the 

360 


Ttoo   Masters 

blank  page  before  him,  tensely  frowning,  as  if  with  a  de- 
termination to  force  an  expression  of  his  thoughts. 

But  either  the  thoughts  themselves  were  shapeless  or 
the  power  of  expression,  hitherto  so  facile,  had  for  the 
moment  utterly  deserted  him. 

He  dropped  his  pen  and  rose  with  a  look  of  surrender. 
Standing  with  his  back  to  her,  he  gazed  full  into  the  sun- 
light, the  finger-tips  of  his  hand  moving  restlessly  over 
the  surface  of  the  blank  paper. 

At  last  he  turned  away  and  crossed  slowly  to  a  small 
table  near  the  stairs,  his  head  and  shoulders  stooping 
with  a  hang-dog  look,  utterly  unlike  the  bold,  free  car- 
riage that  she  loved.  On  the  small  table  stood  a  type- 
writing-machine and  a  pile  of  manuscript,  neat  and 
white,  beside  it. 

He  fell  to  work,  clicking  mechanically;  and  now  his 
expression  strangely  disturbed  her  mind.  Her  dismay 
defined  it  in  one  word  —  lifeless.  Though  his  fingers 
jigged  on  the  keys  and  his  head  was  bent  to  the  task, 
sheet  following  sheet  in  regular  succession,  he  seemed 
to  be,  like  the  thing  he  tapped,  a  mere  machine.  The 
lines  of  his  face  relaxed;  he  was  very  pale.  A  lock  of  hair 
had  slipped  down  over  his  forehead.  His  lips  were  mov- 
ing as  he  wrote.  His  shoulders  sloped,  with  the  slope  of 
drudgery.  Only  his  fingers  appeared  to  be  animate. 
He  looked  a  slave.  Perhaps  her  love  gave  her  eyes  to 
read  beneath  the  surface;  perhaps  any  other  watcher 
would  have  failed  to  note  the  details  of  the  change.  And 
yet  it  was  her  love  that  laughed  at  her  bewilderment. 
She  told  herself  that  the  case  was  plain.  In  the  mo- 
ments when  his  book  refused  to  materialize  and  the 
original  work  hung  fire,  he  was  typewriting  the  part  al- 
ready roughly  penned,  in  order  to  facilitate  a  reading  by 
her  father.  Of  course,  a  task  like  this  was  purely  me- 
chanical. No  doubt  he  loathed  that  little  machine. 

She  started,  and  frowned  in  perplexity.     There  was 


The  Triumph  of  Life 

not  a  sheet  near  him  to  be  copied.  He  was  doing  origi- 
nal work.  The  page  went  in  pure  white  and  came  out 
covered  with  even  lines  of  composition,  evidently  dic- 
tated directly  by  his  brain.  He  was  not  consulting  a 
rough  draft. 

With  apparent  irrelevancy  his  question  concerning 
evil  once  more  flashed  back  to  her  mind:  "Can  a  man 
do  wrong  for  a  time  and  yet  remain  unscathed?  After 
it's  over  is  he  just  as  high,  do  you  think,  just  as  strong?" 

At  the  moment  of  her  recalling  this  question  the  type- 
writer stopped  clicking,  Lloyd  raised  his  head,  and,  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  felt  her  presence,  shot  a  glance 
at  the  window.  Quicker  yet  she  withdrew  and  swiftly 
retreated  to  the  woods. 

Without  pausing,  she  hastened  homeward*,  but  there 
came  no  sound  of  a  step  in  pursuit.  He  had  evidently  not 
seen  her.  The  only  sound,  other  than  the  songs  of  birds 
and  the  ripple  of  the  brook  and  the  stir  of  the  overhead 
leaves,  was  the  discord  of  a  new  impression,  strangely 
out  of  place  in  the  country.  It  beat  mechanically  on  her 
ears — Clickety-tap,  click-tap,  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

v 

When  Marion  came  upon  her  father  in  the  garden  she 
told  the  impractical  nursery -man  that  unless  he  straight- 
way forsook  his  husbandry  he  would  certainly  be  late 
for  dinner.  Whereat,  looking  up  from  a  bulb,  just  em- 
bedded, he  shook  his  head  and  his  eyes  twinkled.  "Now, 
my  captain,  for  once  you  are  wrong.  Dinner  will  be 
a  little  late  this  evening.  I've  this  very  minute  sent 
Timothy  off  with  a  note  to  Lloyd." 

The  color  flooded  to  her  face.  "A  note  for  Mn. 
Lloyd?" 

"Yes.  I  have  received  a  letter  for  him  from  the  Mil- 
lennium Club,  telling  him  of  his  election.  I  have  en- 
closed it  in  another  from  myself,  inviting  him  to  dinner 
there  next  Monday.  Oh  yes;  he's  to  be  admitted  with 

362 


Ttoo    Masters 

the  usual  ceremony."  The  little  old  gentleman  looked 
down  at  the  bulb  with  a  trace  of  dejection.  "  I  suppose 
I  shall  have  to  neglect  the  garden  for  a  day  or  two  and 
think  up  a  speech  for  the  great  occasion.  And  he  will 
have  to  prepare  one,  also." 

Marion  spoke  as  if  to  herself.  "Then  you're  going  to 
New  York?" 

"Yes;  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes;  but  I've  asked  him  surely  to  come  and  see  us 
this  evening." 

Marion's  eyes  were  luminous.  "This  evening,"  she 
kept  repeating  to  herself.  "This  very  evening." 

"And  I've  asked  him,"  continued  Mr.  Lee,  bending 
affectionately  over  the  bulb,  "to  bring  the  opening  chap- 
ters of  his  book.  You  see,  I'd  like  to  take  them  with 
me  and  read  them  on  the  train."  He  knelt  and  patted 
down  the  earth  about  his  foster-child.  "You  may  be 
sure  this  request  and  the  news  of  his  election  will  bring 
Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd,  or  I  am  ignorant  of  young  ambition." 

When  Timothy  returned,  Mr.  Lee  was  not  so  sure. 

The  sciatic  servitor  came  painfully  up  the  slope,  mut- 
tering to  himself  and  shaking  his  head.  In  one  hand  he 
held  a  flat  parcel,  in  the  other  a  note.  His  master,  who 
was  leaving  the  garden  with  Marion,  eyed  the  servant's 
face.  It  was  drawn  with  a  trouble  other  than  that  from 
the  chronic  annoyance  in  his  bones. 

"Mr.  Lloyd,  sir,  asked  me  to  give  you  these,  and  say 
he  was  very  sorry." 

Marion  turned  away  with  a  weight  on  her  heart,  and 
said  nothing. 

The  two  old  men  watched  her  receding  figure.  For 
the  moment  there  was,  perhaps,  a  tacit  sympathy  be- 
tween them — a  sympathy  for  her  that  made  them  equals 
while  they  looked. 

363 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"Mr.  Lloyd  could  hardly  write,"  said  Timothy,  "for 
want  of  rest.  He  even  fell  asleep,  sir,  before  I  left  him." 

Mr.  Lee  paused  in  the  library.  Even  experience, 
thought  the  gentle  philosopher,  is  not  infallible  where 
youth  is  the  problem  to  be  solved.  He  read  the  note 
in  the  lamp-light.  When  he  had  done  so  his  expression 
changed.  The  beam  returned.  He  hurried  up-stairs  to 
Marion's  bedroom. 

Having  thrown  off  the  russet  linen,  she  stood  arrang- 
ing her  hair  for  dinner  before  a  new  mirror  which,  in 
place  of  the  misty  antique,  at  last  surmounted  her  dress- 
ing-table. 

He  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  the  glass.  Her  eyes 
were  moist  with  tears.  "  It's  all  right,  Marion,"  said  he, 
cheerfully;  "it's  all  right.  Read  this." 

Only  half  turning,  so  that  her  long  hair  screened  the 
anxiety  of  her  face,  she  read  the  missive: 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  LEE, — How  can  I  ever  hope  to  thank  you 
for  all  your  kindness  to  me?  It  is,  indeed,  far  greater  than 
I  deserve.  My  election  to  the  Millennium  Club  is  an  honor 
which  I  appreciate  more  than  I  can  possibly  express.  I 
shall,  of  course,  be  at  the  dinner  in  New  York  on  Monday 
evening.  But  will  you  forgive  me  if  I  do  not  come  to  see 
you  to-night?  Also  for  my  seeming  negligence  in  not  hav- 
ing called  sooner?  I  have  been  working  very  hard  ever 
since  I  have  been  here,  and  to-night  I  am  desperately  in 
need  of  sleep.  In  fact,  I  can  hardly  write  this  note  co- 
herently, my  eyes  are  so  heavy  and  my  brain  so  unusually 
fatigued. 

"  Ever  gratefully  yours, 

"ENOCH  LLOYD. 

"P.  S. — I  send  you  all  the  chapters  that  are  finished. 
My  warmest  thanks  to  you  for  offering  to  read  them  so  soon. 
I  will  come  over  in  a  day  or  two  to  hear  your  verdict. 

"E.  L." 

Marion's  eyes  brightened  through  her  tears.     When 

364 


Ttoo   Masters 

she  turned  to  her  father  they  were  half  troubled,  half 
smiling.  "You  see,  he  is  worn  out." 

Mr.  Lee  nodded  approvingly.  "Yes,  dear,  of  course 
he  is.  Genius  always  wears  itself  out,  or  it  is  not 
genius." 

Marion  reread  the  letter,  which,  it  will  be  observed, 
she  had  not  returned.  In  spite  of  the  pride  she  was  tak- 
ing in  repeating  to  herself  her  father's  confident  decla- 
ration of  Enoch's  genius,  she  felt  distressed.  Genius 
seemed  to  deprive  people  of  their  health.  "How  does  it 
happen  that  he  is  not  coming  till  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day?"  she  asked,  at  length.  "Didn't  you  tell  him  you 
were  going  away?" 

Mr.  Lee  looked  shamefaced.  "Do  you  know,  I  be- 
lieve I  forgot!" 

"Oh,  father;  how  like  you!" 

The  gentle  philosopher  apologized  by  quoting  a  parody 
of  his  own  invention.  "Well,  well,  my  dear,  you  must 
remember  that:  "In  the  spring  an  old  man's  fancy 
lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  bulbs." 

Marion  went  close  to  him  and  took  his  hand.  "Father, 
I  shall  never  leave  you." 

"No  rash  promises,  Maid  Marion.  Remember,  a 
young  man's  fancy  is  not  for  bulbs." 

As  he  started  to  drive  away  in  the  morning,  she  stood 
on  the  steps  in  the  sunlight  waving  him  good-bye. 
"Write  to  me  soon." 

His  face  brightened  with  gratified  devotion.  At  least 
she  wanted  to  hear  from  him. 

"Write  very  soon,"  she  added,  darting  a  glance  of 
bashful  pride  and  affection  at  a  paper  parcel  under  his 
arm,  "and  tell  me  your  opinion  of  it." 


II 

The    Heart   of   Marion 

A>L  day  the  sky  had  been  lowering  with  heavy 
clouds.  In  from  the  sea  they  rolled  in  shapeless 
masses,  edged  with  foamlike  white — the  surf  of  the  sky. 
To  the  southeast  a  storm  was  brewing.  Above  the  distant 
shore  in  that  direction  a  long,  black  bank  hung  dense,  and 
the  smell  of  salt  came  in  on  a  rising  wind.  Over  the  past- 
ures the  swallows  flew  low.  At  the  gates  the  cattle  had 
gathered,  waiting  to  be  housed.  No  rain,  however,  had 
yet  fallen.  Overhead  the  wind's  cargo  was  still  intact. 
The  bay  was  an  enormous  vat  of  molten  lead.  But  the 
seethe  of  its  contents  looked  cold.  Not  a  sail  touched  it 
with  a  spot  of  whiteness. 

Marion  had  sat  at  her  window  through  three  everlast- 
ing hours  of  the  afternoon.  This  was  the  second  day 
after  her  father's  departure.  In  the  morning  sh.e  had 
received  the  following  letter,  written  at  his  office: 

"DEAR  MAID  MARION, — I  read  his  manuscript  twice  over 
in  the  train,  but  I  am  still  at  a  loss  for  words  with  which  to 
express  my  opinion  of  it.  One  thing,  however,  is  certain — 
sorry  though  I  am  to  say  so  and  to  tell  you  —  this  work  is 
in  no  way  on  a  level  with  The  Greatest  Good.  Imagine  my 
disappointment  when,  as  I  read  page  after  page,  I  came  to 
this  conclusion.  But  I  was  not  only  disappointed,  I  was 
grieved.  The  cause  of  this  feeling  is  not  apparent.  It  is 
not  to  be  found  on  the  surface  of  his  new  book.  The  ideals 
he  expresses  are  still  lofty,  the  style  is  facile,  the  language 
glows.  And  his  view  of  life  is  more  definite  than  before. 
His  thoughts  have  cohered;  his  intellect  is  rendering  more 

300 


The    Heart  of   Marion 

practicable  the  conceptions  of  his  fancy.  Nevertheless — 
now  do  not  think  me  harsh,  dear  child — the  work  is  a  failure. 

"  I  can  hardly  bear  to  write  you  this.  I  can  see  your  face, 
as  you  read,  lose  so  much  of  that  happiness  which,  though 
it  means  my  passing,  nevertheless  cheers  my  heart.  In- 
deed, I  would  have  begged  the  question,  but  that  I  feel  it 
may  be  in  your  power  to  help  this  young  man,  who  is,  I  am 
still  confident,  right  at  heart.  Yes,  perhaps  God  has  given 
it  to  us  to  bring  one  of  His  most  prominent  workmen  back 
to  those  earlier  heights.  I  say  advisedly,  right  at  heart, 
for  though  I  do  maintain  he  is  so,  the  heart  of  this  work  is 
wrong.  It  does  not  ring  true.  Somehow  the  stamp  of 
sincerity  is  not  upon  it.  Impossible  as  such  a  thing  may 
seem  concerning  the  genius  of  Enoch  Lloyd,  it  appears  now 
to  be  marred  by  charlatanry.  And  yet  the  false  note  is  very 
subtle.  I  am  convinced  that  even  he  himself  is  not  aware 
of  its  presence,  nor  of  the  discord  it  creates.  The  effect 
suggests  that  he  has  unconsciously  lost  that  spontaneity  of 
life  and  truth  and  beauty  which  spoke  so  eloquently  in  his 
first  effort.  It  is  as  though  some  influence  or  some  un- 
toward event  had  warped  his  view.  I  hate  even  to  sug- 
gest it  of  our  young  friend,  but  were  these  chapters  written 
by  a  stranger,  I  should  say,  'Here  is  an  author  who  does 
not  practice  what  he  preaches.' 

"Nevertheless,  dearest  Marion,  I  repeat,  there  is  no  con- 
scious hypocrisy  in  what  he  has  written.  And  this  dis- 
tinction is  not  so  fine  as  some  might  think — especially  to 
one  who  has  been,  as  I  have,  fairly  immersed  in  literature. 
Yes,  he  is  unaware  of  the  thing  that  has  gone  out  of  him. 
Yet  perhaps  he  could  account  for  this  artificiality  if  a 
misgiving  were  suddenly  brought  home  to  him.  Possibly 
he  has  been  reading  the  wrong  sort  of  book.  It  seems  as 
though  a  kind  of  decadent  literature,  not  unlike  the  modern 
Italian,  or,  more  still,  the  French,  had  left  its  impress  on  his 
mind.  His  fire  has  faded  into  rhetoric,  his  ideals  are  now 
but  epigrams,  his  philosophy  is  undertoned  with  bitter- 
ness; and  the  truth  is,  Marion,  I  must  refuse,  both  for  his 
sake  and  that  of  my  own  standards,  to  publish  this  book. 
But  I  shall  not  tell  him  so  until  after  the  dinner  on  Monday 
night.  It  would  be  cruel  to  spoil  his  pleasure.  He  has 

367 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

been  elected  to  the  Millennium  on  the  strength  of  his  first 
book.  The  second  is  another  matter.  And  yet  I  should 
be  the  first  to  regret  his  admission,  and,  of  course,  far  more 
your  feeling  for  him  —  no,  no,  don't  protest,  dear  child;  I 
know  that  look;  it  was  once  your  mother's  —  were  I  not 
confident  that  this  is  but  a  lapse,  and  that  the  life  in  him — 
the  free,  big  love  of  life  and  truth  and  beauty — will  yet  rise 
above  the  atrophy  we  call  decadence,  which  is  but  a  sort  of 
spiritual  dying.  A  man  with  large  life  in  his  body  can  often 
stay  the  hand  of  actual  death;  so,  too,  a  man  with  life  in 
his  soul  can  maintain  that  spark  against  every  wind  of 
destiny;  yes,  against  even  the  whirlwind  of  his  own  sowing. 

"  It  is  for  us,  my  dear,  to  help  Enoch  Lloyd  in  this  main- 
tenance. 

"And  now,  Maid  Marion,  good-bye  to  you.  Somehow, 
this  word  good-bye  is  hard  to  write.  It  means  so  much  more 
than  it  used  to  mean.  It  recalls  the  finality  of  another 
farewell — your  mother's,  and  foreshadows  two  more  that  I 
suppose  must  soon  be  said — my  farewell  to  you  when  you 
choose  your  husband,  and  again  a  last  good-bye  when  I  go 
to  meet  her  in  the  near  Beyond. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  daughter  mine;  what  am  I  writing? 
Away  with  the  shadows  of  age  from  the  sunshine  of  your 
youth.  Yes,  and  I,  too,  have  a  share  of  that  sunshine,  a 
remoter  but  mellower  portion.  For,  though  the  shadows 
lengthen  in  life's  long  afternoon,  there's  always  the  after- 
glow of  memory.  So  don't  be  over- scrupulously  filial,  my 
dear;  don't  exaggerate  your  duty.  Yesterday  you  said, 
'Father,  I  shall  never  leave  you.'  Now,  Maid  Marion,  lis- 
ten to  me,  though  my  answer  is  perhaps  hopelessly  hetero- 
dox to  the  tenets  of  wordly  wisdom. 

"  When  your  cavalier  comes,  and  you  know  that  his  heart 
is  right,  go  to  him  quickly.  Yes,  I  shall  even  insist.  And 
you  may  go  with  a  free  mind,  remembering  this  afterglow 
that  always  comforts  a  certain  rambling  old  philosopher, 
bookman,  gardener,  and  what-not,  who,  when  all  these 
pleasant  little  pursuits  are  cast  aside,  will  still  retain  as  one 
of  his  dearest  privileges  this  of  being 

"Forever  and  aye,  your  devoted 

"FATHER." 
368 


The   Heart    of   Marion 

Marion's  dinner  was  a  lonely  repast.  The  more  so  be- 
cause the  king  and  the  enchanted  Excalibur  on  the  wall- 
paper monopolized  her  thoughts.  "From  this  spirit  of 
the  water,"  Enoch  had  said,  "the  man  received  a  power 
with  which  to  shape  his  future." 

After  dinner  Marion  returned  to  the  window  and  sat 
with  her  face  close  to  the  pane,  looking  longingly  into  the 
night.  Once  she  reread  the  letter,  and  ended  by  crump- 
ling it  in  her  hand. 

The  lights  of  the  house  fell  across  the  orchard.  It  sug- 
gested a  lair  of  nightmare  shapes.  The  shadows  of  the 
gale-blown  branches  moved  in  the  dog-grass  as  though 
alive.  Beyond  the  orchard,  save  for  isolated  lights  on 
the  opposite  shore,  the  night  was  impenetrable  with 
pitchy  blackness.  To  the  northeast  the  reflection  of  a 
city's  lights  flared  against  the  sky.  It  revealed  an  ob- 
long, overhanging  cloud.  The  bay  was  ink. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Marion  rose.  She  saw  a 
form  moving  in  the  orchard  which  was  not  a  shadow. 
Instantly  the  night  was  without  effect.  It  might  have 
been  beautiful  as  any  in  June,  to  judge  by  her  changed 
expression.  Yet  only  in  her  eyes  the  stars  shone;  only 
in  her  heart  that  night  was  beneficent. 

Without  even  an  instinct  of  restraint — so  true  was  her 
love,  so  free,  so  natural — she  hastened  down  to  admit 
him.  Swinging  open  the  heavy  front  door,  she  stood 
there  aglow  before  him.  She  could  feel  the  hot  wave  of 
her  color  throbbing  from  her  heart  and  beating  in  her 
throat  and  temples.  Her  eyes,  timid  stars,  sought,  yet 
evaded  his  own.  She  swayed  slightly;  her  lips  parted; 
she  breathed  deep.  "Father  and  I  have  expected  you 
for  a  long  time."  Two  strong,  white  hands  went  out  to 
him;  two  luminous  eyes,  dew-gray,  sea-deep,  looked  into 
his  own. 

His  brain  reeled.     Was  this  the  marble  statue  he  had 
trained  himself  to  meet  with  cold  formality — this  beau- 
24  369 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

tiful,  beseeching  woman,  whose  eyes  searched  and  laid 
bare  his  spirit,  and  yet  bestowed  on  it  the  gracious  balm 
of  tenderness?  Involuntarily  his  arms  went  out  to 
her,  as  a  drowning  man's  to  a  stronger  swimmer;  then 
his  brain  cleared  and  the  wretchedness  of  his  double 
life,  his  present  service  of  the  two  elemental  masters, 
seemed  to  sear  his  love.  He  stood  rigid  before  her,  his 
hands  clinched,  scarring  his  palms.  "Marion  —  Miss 
Lee—!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  metallic,  formal  tone,  the  color,  the 
glow,  the  tremulous  yielding  which  like  a  wave -beat 
atmosphere  had  at  first  shone  palpitant  in  Marion  lulled 
into  breathless  silence.  Always  when  together  each  of 
these  two  had  seemed  to  the  other  as  though  central  in  a 
fire  circle,  whose  flame  was  engendered  by  an  inner  spark. 
But  now  to  each  the  cold  hand  of  a  psychical  death 
seemed  to  be  pressing  upon  them;  the  pulsating  atmos- 
phere had  grown  bleak  and  still. 

"Miss  Lee — Marion — I  am  not  worthy  even  to  touch 
your  hand."  He  drew  back.  "I  have  done  wrong.  I 
never  realized  how  much  until  this  moment  when 
you — "  He  broke  off  abruptly  and  smiled.  It  was 
like  a  blade  on  her  heart,  that  smile  of  her  Siegfried,  the 
cleaver  of  flame.  Where  now  was  the  life  triumphant, 
the  godlike  love?  He  looked  like  an  image  of  despair. 
"You  will  always  be  the  marble  goddess  to  me  now,"  he 
told  her,  in  a  voice  itself  suggesting  marble.  "I  shall 
keep  you  shrined  in  my  soul.  Beautiful,  great-hearted 
Marion,  you  will  not  deny  me  that?"  For  the  first  time 
his  voice  broke.  He  had  almost  succumbed  to  the  spell 
of  her  power.  It  was  as  if  a  tempest  rushed  from  his 
heart  catching  up  words,  whirling  forth  love;  but  he 
locked  his  lips  against  it.  The  falter  seemed  to  have 
almost  shamed  him  into  silence. 

Marion's  eyes  grew  grave  with  anxious  bewilderment. 
Could  he  not  see  that  she  loved  him?  "Oh,  Enoch,"  she. 

37° 


The   Heart   of   Marion 

began,  "Enoch — "  But  even  then,  when  for  the  first 
time  she  called  him  Enoch,  he  maintained  his  mask. 

"  Is  your  father  at  home?" 

She  stepped  back.  The  blade  of  his  smile  was  stab- 
bing her.  Nevertheless,  she  would  not  desert  him.  "  No, 
he  has  gone  to  New  York,  but" — her  voice  trembled — 
"7  am  here." 

The  love  in  her  heart  was  not  only  tender,  it  seemed  to 
be  indomitably  strong.  Or,  rather,  this  very  tenderness 
was  strength,  and  her  father's  letter  had  increased  it. 
She  recalled  these  words:  "A  man  with  large  life  in  his 
body  can  often  stay  the  hand  of  actual  death;  so,  too, 
a  man  with  life  in  his  soul  can  maintain  that  spark 
against  every  wind  of  destiny;  yes,  against  even  the 
whirlwind  of  his  own  sowing."  She  had  determined  to 
use  all  her  power,  all  her  love,  to  fan  alive  the  fire  in 
Enoch.  Why  it  seemed  likely  to  die  she  did  not  know, 
but  this  was  not  the  time  to  wonder.  She  must  give  him 
her  woman's  best  aid;  she  would  never  fail  him.  While 
he  stood  there,  and  the  wind  blew  in  at  the  doorway,  and 
he  hung  silent  in  the  heart  of  it,  she  took  this  firm  resolve : 
never  again  would  she  fail  him.  What  he  had  done,  how 
he  had  lived,  wherein  lay.  the  shadow  of  his  turning,  she 
did  not  consider  now.  He  was  hers,  hers,  hers,  and  she 
would  make  herself  worthy  of  him  by  making  him 
worthy  of  himself.  Once  given,  her  heart  was  not  a  heart 
that  could  be  withdrawn.  Once  won,  it  was  won  forever. 
And  it  knew  his  own,  else  there  had  been  no  possibility 
of  love.  She  knew  his  own  deep  heart,  and  what  his  lips 
said  and  what  his  face  said  could  never  drown  the  voice 
of  the  life  and  the  truth  and  the  love  within  it.  What- 
ever he  had  done  could  not  have  changed  his  being.  And, 
best  of  all,  he  was  at  last  here  with  her.  Ah!  she  would 
never  let  him  go  again  without  protecting  him  from  this 
nameless  something  that  attacked  his  soul.  "You  will 
be  my  muse,  encouraging  and  uplifting  me  to  higher  en- 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

deavor  always.  You  can  do  that,  your  eyes  can,  your 
voice  can,  your  mind  and  spirit  can — then  do!" 

Marion  smiled.  His  eyes,  ever  interpretable  through 
the  mask,  were  voicing  again  the  plea  of  his  letter.  They 
seemed,  as  he  stood  there  with  the  night  behind  him,  to 
be  crying  it  to  her  out  of  the  storm. 

"Come  in  and  tell  me,"  she  said,  simply;  "tell  me 
what  is  wrong." 

He  hesitated,  with  a  foot  on  the  threshold  and  low- 
ered glance.  Somehow,  at  the  moment  of  her  invitation 
he  could  not  meet  her  eyes.  It  came  to  him  then  that 
one  thing  only  would  restore  to  him  the  right  to  do  so. 
But  no;  she  would  surely  again  turn  away  from  him,  and 
this  time  forever.  Her  new  manner,  now  so  disturbing 
and  yet  a  solace,  so  lovely  and  yet  a  torture,  surely  could 
not  last.  It  could  never  stand  the  test  he  was  consid- 
ering. Well,  what  matter?  He  would  at  least  have  put 
the  thing  in  words.  He  would  at  least  have  shaped  the 
formless  void,  the  abysmal  chaos,  into  which  his  soul 
was  sinking.  As  she  waited,  with  the  cheerfully  lighted 
interior  behind  her,  a  sudden  desire  sprang  up  within 
him  to  define  his  present  condition.  To  himself  he  was 
incapable  of  doing  so ;  only  to  her  could  it  be  done.  He 
wanted  to  express  himself,  to  utter  in  so  many  words  his 
two  selves — the  selves  that  were  now  becoming  so  in- 
extricably mingled.  In  a  moment  this  overpowering  de- 
sire had  put  all  thoughts  of  the  consequence  to  flight. 

Still  dumb,  he  crossed  the  threshold  and  followed 
Marion  to  the  library. 

Once  there,  she  turned  to  him  with  a  peculiar  blending 
of  timidity  and  force.  "Tell  me,  Enoch;  oh,  tell  me 
—  everything."  She  sank  to  a  sofa  near  the  book- 
shelves, against  whose  lines  of  antiquated  tomes  she 
formed  a  striking  contrast.  All  those  systems  of  ethics 
and  religion,  standing  there  row  on  row  behind  her;  all 
that  cemetery  of  dead  philosophies  could  not  have  in- 

372 


The   Heart   of   Marion 

fluenced  him  one-thousandth  part  as  strongly  as  did  the 
vivid,  breathing,  living  Marion  in  the  foreground.  Against 
a  line  of  gloomy  bindings  her  hair,  with  its  remarkable 
effect  of  lucency,  was  spreading  abroad,  together  with 
her  eyes,  a  light  that  went  infinitely  deeper  in  his  depths 
than  the  light  of  those  once  prescient  intellects  now  dead 
and  leather-embalmed  behind  her  could  ever  have  pene- 
trated. 

From  over  the  mantel-shelf  the  eyes  of  the  ancestral 
Lee  followed  the  guest  of  his  youngest  descendant.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  evade  their  scrutiny.  But  the 
eyes  of  her  father's  portrait  on  the  opposite  wall  were 
quaintly  benevolent. 

Now  and  again  Enoch  stood  motionless  before  her, 
shaping  the  chaos,  but  oftener  he  paced  the  room  with 
an  air  of  fitful  abstraction,  much  the  same,  no  doubt,  as 
when  he  had  paced  to  and  fro  that  night  in  the  fog  on  the 
deck  of  Slocum's  light-ship.  Now  that  it  had  come  to 
the  crucial  point,  the  requisite  strength  was  wanting. 
Something  had  sapped  it  in  the  past  winter,  and  little 
save  the  habit  of  concealment  was  really  strong. 

"I  am  sorry  I  missed  your  father,"  he  told  her,  with 
obvious  procrastination.  "I  had  hoped  that  by  to- 
night he  might  have  read  the  opening  chapters." 

"He  has,"  she  replied,  with  a  quick  but  hesitant  im- 
pulse; then,  forming  a  resolve  founded  on  the  very  cor- 
ner-stone of  her  character,  she  determined  to  confront 
him  with  the  charge  against  a  something  that  suggested 
a  lower  self.  In  this  new,  mightily  developing  love  of 
hers  there  was  a  quality  even  profounder  than  the  ten- 
derness, an  element  that  could  bear  to  wound  him  for 
his  own  good. 

Taking  her  father's  crumpled  letter  from  her  breast, 
she  read  the  criticism  to  Enoch,  omitting  only  the  refer- 
ences to  herself. 

When  she  had  finished  his  face  was  ashen.  A  low 
373 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

half  cry  like  a  moan  escaped  him ;  his  gaze  wandered  un- 
seeingly  about  the  room ;  his  brows  were  drawn  down  in 
a  frown  of  vital  bewilderment;  his  shoulders  painfully 
stooped.  Then  suddenly  he  stood  erect,  as  if  horror- 
struck,  and  his  look  was  the  look  of  one  who  is  brought 
by  a  swift  shock  face  to  face  with  the  results  of  the 
wrong.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "it  is  true.  It  is 
terrible.  I  don't  know  the  difference" — he  laughed 
aloud,  and  Marion  shuddered — "  I  don't  know  the  differ- 
ence between  good  and  evil!"  He  sank  to  the  chair  at 
the  writing-table  and  fell  to  repeating  over  and  over  Mr. 
Lee's  most  telling  phrases.  "The  heart  of  this  work  is 
wrong."  "...  marred  by  charlatanry."  "Discord!" 
"An  author  who  does  not  practice  what  he  preaches." 
'*..-.  the  atrophy  we  call  decadence  ...  a  sort  of  spirit- 
ual dying." 

Enoch  was  at  bay.  He  had  been  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance and  found  wanting.  What  damning  charges  they 
were!  Oh,  God,  how  true!  "Yes,"  he  told  her,  "  I  have 
gone  so  far  that  I  can't  distinguish  between  them.  I'm 
no  longer  Jekyll  and  Hyde,"  he  laughed,  hoarsely.  "I 
am  only  Hyde." 

For  an  instant  Marion  recoiled.  The  wish  was  in  her 
mind  to  leave  the  room,  but  the  strength  was  in  her 
heart  to  stay  there.  And  the  intuition  that  quickened 
that  strength  said  this:  Had  pride  not  shut  my  spirit 
against  him  at  the  very  first;  had  I  never  written  that 
letter;  yes,  had  I  been  a  mere  friend  when  I  knew  so 
well  that  he  needed  one,  Enoch  might  never  have  done 
wrong!  So  thinking,  she  rose  slowly,  the  tears  welling 
in  her  eyes.  Crossing  to  him  she  sank  to  one  knee  be- 
side his  chair  and  took  his  hand  and  looked  up  to  com- 
pel an  answering  gaze.  It  was  as  though  Marion  were 
the  wrong-doer,  Enoch  the  one  wronged.  "Tell  me," 
she  implored  him,  passionately — "tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

374 


The    Heart   of   Marion 

He  withdrew  his  hand.  A  devil  hung  at  his  ear  and 
prompted  a  travesty.  "Do  you  know  Miss  Dolly 
Cohen?"  he  asked,  lightly.  "No,  I  suppose  not.  Well, 
she's  the  notorious  author  of  The  Flame  of  Folly,  The 
Altar  of  Love,  and  other  pernicious  trash.  Now,  the 
funny  part  of  it  is,  that  I — / — am  Dolly  Cohen!" 

Marion,  in  a  turmoil  of  anxiety,  caught  back  his  hand. 
"Enoch,  Enoch,  what  is  wrong  with  you?"  Her  eyes 
darkened  in  fear.  "Do  you  need  sleep?  You're  not 
yourself — " 

"No,"  he  nodded,  "you  are  right.  I'm  not  myself. 
I'm  Dolly  Cohen." 

She  rose,  shivering  with  apprehension.  His  voice  was 
so  tragically  ludicrous!  It  jangled  on  her  nerves.  Who 
was  this  woman  he  talked  about  ?  What  was  this  horri- 
ble phantasmagoria  that  coupled  the  name  so  dear  to 
her  with  a  name  that  sounded  base?  She  stood  back, 
looking  down  at  him  in  alarm 

But  the  vague,  unthinkable  question  in  her  eyes  only 
tickled  the  devil  at  his  ear.  "No,  no,  I'm  not  crazy. 
I'm  not  in  need  of  sleep.  I  slept  yesterday  twenty  hours ; 
but  then  it's  true  I'd  had  no  sleep  for  a  week  before. 
Yes,  Miss  Lee,  I'm  Dolly  Cohen.  She  begs  to  introduce 
herself.  She's  the  lower  half  of  Enoch  Lloyd."  He 
paused.  Marion  had  retreated  farther  from  him.  And 
yet  her  eyes,  though  no  longer  questioning  his  mental 
balance,  were  luminous  with  a  compassion  that  at  any 
moment  other  than  this  of  his  new  discovery — the  dis- 
covery of  his  inability  now  to  discriminate  between  good 
and  bad — would  surely  have  gained  his  soul.  Oh,  why 
did  the  devil  insist  on  a  farcical  confession  ?  It  was  being 
made  somewhat  after  the  travestical  manner  of  the  act- 
ual Dolly  Cohen,  with  a  positively  sardonic  perversity. 
Perhaps  the  spirit  of  Dolly  herself  was  the  devil  at  his 
ear!  Hyde  was  revelling  in  his  triumph. 

"The  point  is,"  pursued  Enoch,  in  a  casual  way,  "I've 
375 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

written  so  much  of  the  bad  kind  that  I  cannot  write  the 
good.  Funny,  isn't  it?  I  thought  I  could  keep  them 
both  going,  but  it  seems  I  can't.  So  I  shall  have  to  stick 
to  the  trash.  That,  at  all  events,  I'm  bound  to  do. 
There's  no  hope.  It's  a  queer  case.  I'm  tied  down. 
I'm  the  slave  of  a  bad  angel.  You  see,  the  most  unac- 
countable thing  happened.  After  I'd  written  as  Dolly 
Cohen — yes,  I  chose  the  name  myself;  don't  ask  me 
why — after  I'd  made  that  name  famous  among  a  cer- 
tain low  class,  an  actual  woman  up  and  assumes  it.  She 
parades  as  the  author,  knowing  well  enough  that  I  do 
not  dare  to  expose  her,  and  so  she  has  become  the  lower 
part  of  me  incarnate.  And  I  can't 'kill  her,  because  that 
would  be  murder,  and  I  can't  betray  her,  because  that 
would  be  the  suicide  of  Enoch  Lloyd.  Did  you  ever  hear 
such  an  amazing  story?  It's  good  enough  for  a  book — 
so  entertaining,  so  bizarre." 

He  rose,  wild-eyed  but  laughing. 

Marion  vaguely  understood.  "When  did  you  first 
write — down  ?"  she  asked,  with  clear,  adequate  thought- 
fulness,  her  manner  like  that  of  a  beautiful  sister  of 
mercy,  strong  and  resourceful.  She  was,  indeed,  a  nurse 
that  evening,  watchful,  tender,  sympathetic — the  nurse 
of  her  lover's  soul. 

Enoch  hesitated  before  replying  to  her  question.  The 
inherent  chivalry  in  him,  still  alive,  never-killable,  for- 
bade him  to  ascribe  the  beginning  of  his  degradation  to 
the  time  of  her  frigid  note.  Even  the  devil  at  his  ear 
could  not  persuade  him  to  blame  her. 

With  swift  perception  Marion  understood  his  hesitancy. 
She  saw  that  she  was  at  least  in  a  measure  responsible, 
and  that  he,  though  distraught  with  bitterness,  was  far 
too  chivalrous  to  condemn  her. 

"Soon  after  my  failure  with  The  Greatest  Good,"  he  told 
her,  dully,  "  disappointment  and  a  peculiar  stroke  of  fate 
drove  me  to  it;  also  the  suggestions  of  Matthew  Steele." 

376 


The   Heart  of   Marion 

"Matthew  Steele!" 

"Yes;  he  is  Miss  Cohen's  publisher.  Now  you  know 
the  sort  of  books  they  were.  I  read  a  chapter  to  you  in 
New  York.  It's  true  that  novel  was  never  published, 
but  the  rest  were  not  much  better." 

Marion  shuddered.  The  name  of  Steele  and  the  reali- 
zation that  the  chapter  Enoch  had  read  to  her  that  night 
in  New  York  was  of  his  own  writing,  showed  her  the 
depth  of  his  fall.  She  saw  it  all  in  a  flash.  Again  she 
saw  him  torn  two  ways  in  the  cabin  when  she  had  stood 
there  at  the  window  and  watched  at.  a  struggle  whose 
motives  had  not  at  the  time  been  understood.  He 
had  been  trying  to  write  the  good  and  the  bad,  but  the 
bad  had  conquered.  Click-tap,  click-tap,  it  had  steadily 
evolved  with  mechanical  precision.  All  because  some 
unknown  woman,  an  adventuress,  had  contrived  by  dar- 
ing imposture  to  gain  control  of  him,  mind  and  spirit. 
An  unknown  woman!  The  thought  of  that  other  so 
strangely  close  to  him,  so  blent  with  his  fate,  so  intimate 
with  his  lower  self,  almost  shook  her  determination. 
The  sister  of  mercy  was  very  human.  The  personal  ele- 
ment could  not  be  set  aside. 

"Do  you  know  this — this — Dolly  Cohen?" 

Lloyd  smiled  with  infinite  bitterness.  "Know  her? 
Yes,  I  do.  The  truth  is — oh,  there's  no  denying  it — I 
am  utterly  in  her  power."  His  voice  fell  lower,  but  not 
inaudible,  as  he  added  to  himself,  "Yet  perhaps,  if  it 
came  to  the  crucial  point,  she  would  weaken  for  my  sake." 

Marion  paled.  Her  heart  seemed  to  have  stopped 
beating.  She  was  ice-cold.  Who  but  an  angel  incapa- 
ble of  human  love  could  have  forgotten  Self  at  such  a 
moment?  She  could  have  heard  of  that  other  woman's 
enmity  and  still  the  strong  hand  of  her  aid  would  have 
gone  out  to  him;  but  now  that  he  spoke  of  the  woman's 
weakness  for  him,  a  weakness  that  suggested  she  would 
not  think  what,  her  hand  was  instinctively  withdrawn. 

377 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

"Well,"  said  Enoch — ''well?"  He  was  beside  himself 
with  a  longing  to  have  her  question  him — to  have  her  set 
loose  the  torrent  his  remorse  had  dammed.  But  she 
only  stood  there  rigid  and  voiceless,  condemning  him 
with  her  eyes. 

Once  more  that  other  woman  had  stepped  in  between 
him  and  a  possible  redemption.  But  Enoch  imagined 
that  Marion  was  thus  forbiddingly  silent  only  because  of 
the  actual  wrong.  He  did  not  know  that  the  devil  had 
leaped  from  him  to  her  and  was  whispering  in  her  ear 
a  terrible  suspicion. 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "This  is  what  I  expected  and 
what  I  deserve.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Only  one 
thing  I  would  remind  you,  and  that  is  hardly  necessary. 
What  I  have  said  is  for  you  alone." 

Before  she  could  summon  the  courage  and  self-abnega- 
tion to  recall  him,  he  had  left  her.  "Yes,"  he  repeated 
to  himself,  "  I  deserve  it." 

The  rain  was  now  falling  in  sheets.  The  wind  had 
suddenly  let  go  by  the  board  its  enormous  cargo  in  the 
heavens.  The  water  beat  in  fury  against  the  rocks. 

Instinctively  Enoch  avoided  the  storm-struck  shore. 
He  hastened  homeward  by  the  country  road,  sheltered 
from  time  to  time  by  arching  trees.  Not  until  he  had 
come  nearly  to  the  place  at  which  he  must  enter  the 
woods  did  he  pause  in  that  fateful  return,  and  then  there 
was  a  definite  reason. 

Under  an  oak-tree  at  the  road-side  stood  a  dilapidated 
station  carryall,  wheels  in  the  mud,  horse  jaded,  rain- 
curtains  flapping  in  the  wind.  When  Enoch  had  passed 
the  conveyance  he  looked  back.  The  carriage- lamp, 
wavering  and  rain-spattered,  revealed  a  hackman  asleep 
within.  Enoch  frowned.  The  vehicle  meant  that  some 
one  had  come  to  see  him.  His  was  the  only  house  in  the 
vicinity.  Who  could  it  be?  Cuthbert  Morton?  Had 
Cuttv  come  on  from  New  York  to  trouble  yet  further  his 

378 


The   Heart   of   Marion 

weary  brain?  Yes;  it  might  well  be  Cutty.  Who  else 
kept  a  hand  on  his  future?  Who  else?  He  repeated  the 
question  with  sharp  apprehension,  and  stumbled  forward 
hurriedly  through  the  underbrush. 

When  he  flung  open  the  door  he  paused  on  the  thresh- 
old without  surprise,  his  gaze  resting  vaguely  on  his  vis- 
itor. Presently  he  nodded  slowly,  not  in  greeting,  but 
as  though  replying  to  his  last  suspicion:  "Yes;  it  could 
be  none  but  you." 

She  rose  from  the  chair  at  his  writing-table  and  smiled 
him  a  welcome.  "The  summer  has  "come,"  she  said, 
sweetly,  "and  so  have  I.  What  lovely  weather!"  She 
flicked  off  the  rain-drops,  then,  throwing  aside  a  sombre 
storm-coat,  revealed  a  suit  of  black  cloth,  severely  sim- 
ple. "I  hope  you're  not  going  abroad,"  she  said.  "I 
was  afraid  you  might  have  started  already;  that's  why  I 
came.  Gol  O'Brien  is  going  to  ask  you." 

Enoch  started,  with  a  flash  of  eagerness  that  caused 
her  to  smile  in  comprehension. 

"Oh,  I  see  it's  just  as  well  I  came.  How  annoying  it 
would  have  been  to  miss  you.  I  hope  nothing's  wrong. 
Of  course,  you've  finished  the  book — my  novel.  But 
come  in,  won't  you?  I  dislike  the  wind." 

Enoch  entered,  gloomily,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Why  didn't  you  look  amazed,"  she  demanded,  with 
pretty  petulance,  "when  you  found  me  here  in  posses- 
sion? I  had  thought  it  would  be  a  great  surprise." 

Lloyd  shook  his  head.  "No;  I  knew  you  would  grow 
uneasy." 

"I  uneasy?  Why  so?  You  gave  me  your  word. 
Can  you  guess  why  I  came?  It  was  simply  because  I 
couldn't  help  it.  Think  of  that!  Little  Celeste,  the 
pink  of  propriety,  has  lost  her  head."  She  seated  her- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  writing-table  while  Lloyd,  having 
sunk  to  the  chair  beside  it,  sat  there  dumb,  in  a  kind  of 
stupor,  looking  everywhere  but  at  her.  "Yes;  that's 

379 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

why  I  came.  But  what's  the  matter?  You  look  as 
though  you  had  sold  your  soul  to  the  devil,  and  as 
though  I,  on  behalf  of  his  majesty,  were  here  to  claim 
it." 

Enoch  nodded  in  silence. 

"Ho!"  she  laughed,  "this  is  a  compliment.  Well,  do 
you  know,  I'd  rather  play  the  devil  to  you  than  an  angel 
to  any  other."  She  slipped  down  and  knelt  beside  him 
and  took  his  hand.  Her  position  was  exactly  the  same 
as  that  of  Marion  not  an  hour  before.  But  Enoch  did 
not,  as  then,  withdraw  his  fingers.  He  was  not  unworthy 
of  the  present  touch.  It  seemed  good  to  be  lulled  by  an 
influence  that  was  not  above  him,  not  so  unattainably 
high.  Strange  to  say,  this  woman's  presence  no  longer 
made  him  ill  at  ease.  He  was  experiencing  a  blind  sol- 
ace in  having  her  so  close  to  him  to  soften  the  seclu- 
sion, while  all  about  them  the  tempest  brawled  and  the 
rain,  as  though  threatening  to  enter  and  drown  them, 
beat  in  fury  against  the  panes.  Without  her  his  loneli- 
ness would  have  been  desperate.  Isolated  here  with  his 
thoughts,  he  might  almost  have  gone  mad.  Moreover, 
there  was  no  longer  a  struggle  within  him.  What  was 
there,  save  to  surrender  to  the  wrong?  Even  the  power 
to  write  as  he  had  once  written  had  deserted  him.  Ste- 
phen Lee's  letter  had  shown  him  that.  He  was  no  longer 
capable  of  elevating  any  one ;  the  shadow  of  his  turning 
lay  full  upon  him;  the  weight  of  his  incubus,  first  a  light- 
enough  burden  assumed  with  ease,  had  grown  with  ap- 
palling rapidity  heavier  and  heavier  till  now  it  inevitably 
dragged  him  down.  And  the  woman  whose  destiny  had 
become  so  strangely  interwoven  with  his  own  was  gently 
healing  the  inner  sore.  With  a  gracious  little  palm  she 
brushed  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead;  with  a  com- 
forting smile  she  bade  him  pluck  up  new  heart.  The 
case  was  not  so  dreadful.  What  if  he  had  tempo- 
rarily lost  the  hang  of  his  first  manner?  When  this 

380 


The   Heart   of   Marion 

book  of  hers  was  out  of  the  way  he  would  regain  the  old 
spontaneity  and  fire.  He  would  have  free  rein.  Of 
course,  he  had  not  been  able  to  do  two  things  at  once. 
He  ought  not  to  have  even  tried.  Poor  boy,  how  hag- 
gard the  attempt  had  left  him,  how  drawn  and  pale! 
Well,  well;  a  night  or  two  of  good,  sound  sleep  would  re- 
store his  balance.  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she 
thought  of  her  cruelty  in  having  made  him  work  so  hard. 
Genuine  concern  was  in  her  voice  and  eyes.  "Oh,  you 
don't  know  me,"  she  said,  at  last;  "I  haven't  shown  you 
my  true  nature,  and  yet  only  you  awaken  it.  You 
would  not  believe  me  if  I  told  you  of  the  happiness  and 
pain  that  come  to  me  when  I  think  of  you.  I  have  pict- 
ured you  here  so  often — free,  careless,  godlike,  loving  the 
sky,  the  bay,  the  shore.  Do  you  know,  I  was  that  way 
once  myself,  but  only  in  early  childhood.  Of  a  Sunday 
afternoon  we  used  to  cross  the  Seine,  father,  mother,  and 
I,  and,  dressed  in  our  best,  we  would  hie  ourselves  out  in 
the  Bois.  At  first  I  loved  only  the  flowers  and  the  green 
things  and  the  wide  expanse  of  the  blue  above.  Yes, 
yes;  I  loved  it  all  passionately — of  a  Sunday  afternoon. 
But  as  I  grew  older  the  people  of  the  Bois,  as  well  as  the 
natural  beauty,  caught  my  eye.  I  can  remember  how 
my  envy  of  those  fashionable  children  grew.  One  sel- 
dom is  jealous  of  the  flowers,  no  matter  how  finely 
they're  arrayed,  but  a  little  girl  in  a  shoddy  smock  soon 
covets  the  finery  of  richer  little  girls  with  silks  and  rib- 
bons and  flowery  hats.  Yes;  the  poor  little  girl  envies 
the  rich  one,  from  the  fair  bare  legs  to  the  toy  balloon  that 
floats  so  airily  above  her.  You  see  how  it  was  that  in  the 
garden  of  my  heart,  beside  those  flowers  of  the  beautiful 
Bois,  there  grew  up  tares.  Helas,  those  tares  have  killed 
the  flowers." 

She  paused  with  a  quick  half-sob,  then  smiled  up  to 
him  bravely  through  gathering  tears.  (Was  there  ever 
such  a  pretty  piece  of  comedy,  she  thought — if  she  could 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

really  call  it  acting?)  "A  heart  full  of  weeds,"  she  mur- 
mured, wistfully;  "and  you  are  its  only  gardener." 

Lloyd  looked  down  at  her  with  a  sad  smile.  The 
poetry  of  her  temperament  had  touched  him.  The  blood 
of  the  old  French  poet  was  in  her  still.  Enoch  could 
feel  its  subtle  influence.  Almost,  he  could  have  loved 
this  wonderful  little  spirit.  What  did  the  darkness  of 
her  eyes  conceal?  And  the  shadows  that  always  seemed 
to  veil  her  face,  as  though  spread  downward  by  the  mid- 
night of  her  hair,  what  light  of  a  simple,  happy  childhood 
did  these  obscure ?  Could  it  be  that  he  had  really 
awakened  her  soul  ?  Ah !  then  perhaps  his  double  exist- 
ence of  the  past  year  had  not  been  an  utter  failure.  It 
acted  like  a  gratifying  palliative,  this  thought  that  per- 
haps the  latent  good  in  him  had  touched  a  kindred  chord 
in  her.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  could  do  some  good  in  the 
life  that  she  had  opened  up  before  him.  He  could  in- 
stil better  sentiment  into  the  novels  of  Dolly  Cohen. 
Gradually  he  would  raise  their  level.  No  other  way  re- 
mained. It  was  now  not  so  much  a  question  of  ex- 
posure as  of  this  incapacity  again  to  write  nobly — this  un- 
accountable going  out  of  the  inner  spark.  Whatever  he 
wrote  in  imitation  of  The  Greatest  Good  would  not  ring 
true.  How  much  better  to  be  sincere  and  grope  more 
gradually  upward. 

Meanwhile  Dolly  murmured  an  accompaniment  to 
these  indulgent  ramblings  of  his  tired  brain.  Be  it  said, 
in  justice  to  him,  it  was  mostly  his  fatigue  that  rendered 
possible  her  ascendency  that  evening.  The  fatigue, 
however,  was  itself  due  to  his  service  of  the  two  mas- 
ters. 

Dolly  knelt  long  at  his  side,  and  when  finally  she  rose 
it  was  only  to  seat  herself  on  the  chair-arm.  Could  it 
be  that  she  had  forgotten  the  demands  of  her  mission? 
Could  she  have  lost  sight  of  the  main  issue?  She  had 
come  for  the  book,  desperately  fearful  lest  he  should  fail 


The    Heart   of   Marion 

her,  yet  here  she  sat,  apparently  lured  from  her  object 
by  a  new  hope  and  an  old  longing. 

What  if  the  rain  beat  down  and  the  wind  roared  and 
the  last  train  left  without  her  ?  What  matter  if  the  car- 
riage stood  waiting  out  there  in  the  dark  till  doomsday. 
The  present  was  the  thing.  Past,  future,  and  eternity 
were  beside  the  question.  Expose  him?  No,  not  to 
save  her  soul.  No,  she  would  not  expose  him,  even 
though  he  refused  her  the  book,  if  only  she  could  win 
him  to  her. 

Thus  they  sat,  comfortable  in  the  heart  of  the  storm. 
And,  seemingly,  all  was  so  wrong  with  the  world  of  one  of 
them  that  even  God  was  not  in  His  heaven.  Seemingly, 
yes;  in  reality,  never.  The  Keeper  of  Life  was  watch- 
ing. One  of  those  combats  which  ever  and  anon  in  the 
individual  experience  seem  to  foreshadow  the  ultimate 
conflict  was  even  now  upon  them. 

The  heart  of  Marion  was  militant.  Recovering  the 
fair,  free  scope  of  its  courage,  it  had  bidden  her  follow 
him  into  the  night. 

Throwing  a  long,  hooded  cloak  about  her,  she  had 
started  by  the  shore  for  his  home. 

While  the  storm  raged  around  the  cabin,  and  Lloyd, 
sick  at  heart,  tried  to  derive  peace  from  the  partner  of 
his  loneliness,  Marion  was  braving  its  fury.  She  even 
felt  inspired  by  its  force.  Though  the  rain  cut  her  face, 
and  the  wind  battled  against  her,  and  the  water,  dashing 
high  above  the  rocks,  wet  her  to  the  skin,  she  drew 
breath  from  the  stress  and  strength  of  nature. 

The  greatness  of  her  mission  and  her  love  had  ren- 
dered futile  the  voice  at  her  ear.  Now  that  it  found  her 
deaf,  it  raised  the  clamor  of  convention.  Truly,  a  puny, 
pusillanimous  outcry  against  the  liberty  of  the  right. 
To  this  she  was  deafer  still. 

Without  hesitation  she  crossed  at  once  to  his  dwelling, 

383 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

but  with  her  hand  upraised  to  knock  at  the  door  she 
paused  in  surprise.  A  woman's  voice,  low  and  musical, 
had  reached  her  ears;  then  Enoch's,  answering  the  mur- 
mur. 

Marion,  standing  there  drenched  and  wind -struck, 
shivered  from  head  to  foot.  But  it  was  not  the  rain  and 
the  gale  that  caused  her  chill.  The  murmur  of  the  un- 
known woman  was  deep  with  passion. 

Marion's  brain  swam.  Her  heart  was  constricted  as 
by  an  actual  pain.  Fate  itself  was  trying  her  bravery. 
Who  could  have  come  to  him  at  such  an  hour?  She 
went  around  through  the  dark  and  glanced  in  at  the  win- 
dow. Was  it  over-feminine ;  was  it  at  all  unworthy  of  her 
lofty  spirit,  that  fainting  gaze?  Yes;  if  the  attendance 
of  a  God-sent  nurse  in  the  room  of  an  illness  is  to  be 
called  unworthy.  She  had  come  to  succor  him  and  she 
could  not  leave  him ;  she  would  fight  to  recall  him  to  her- 
self and  the  higher  way.  Love  and  the  right,  evenly 
mingled,  actuated  her  every  motive.  For  still,  even 
while  he  sat  there  with  the  woman  so  close  to  him,  she 
knew  his  heart.  Her  faith  in  his  inmost  soul  could  never 
be  shaken.  That  faith  had  become  a  part  of  her  religion. 

Swaying,  she  turned  away.  She  had  recognized  the 
woman.  There  could  be  no  mistake.  Instincts  at  such 
a  moment  possess  a  divination  quicker  than  reason  ever 
can  boast.  She  had  at  a  glance  known  the  woman  of 
darkness. 

Oh,  she  was  living  in  a  horrible  allegory, .  .  .  the  final 
test  of  her  heart  had  come.  It  demanded  an  act  that 
perhaps  no  good  woman  under  similar  circumstances  had 
done  before.  It  demanded  her  presence  there  before 
him.  She  must  struggle  for  the  mastery  in  person. 
Virtue  must  visit  evil. 

Small  wonder  she  came  near  to  fainting  before  so  un- 
precedented a  conflict.  She  could  not  enter  at  once. 
The  strength  was  not  in  her.  Instead  she  walked  to  the 

384 


The   Heart   of<  Marion 

shore,  back  and  forth  through  the  tempest,  drinking  in 
its  might. 

The  struggle  revived  her  pride.  It  was  the  spirit  of 
her  old,  hard  pride  that  returned  to  her  now  and  cried 
out  against  the  everlasting  humiliation.  Ah!  but  she 
had  cast  him  aside  when  he  needed  her.  Again  and 
again  she  had  shut  herself  from  him  when  all  his  future 
hung  in  the  balance.  Would  any  sacrifice  be  too  great 
to  atone  for  so  cruel  a  desertion  ?  It  seemed  to  her  that 
if  she  left  him  now,  Heaven  itself  would  blame  her 
for  his  evil.  His  soul  was  in  her  keeping.  .  .  .  And 
then,  .  .  .  more  than  all,  .  .  .  how  desperately  she  loved 
him! 

While  the  elements  raged,  and  the  sky  and  the  earth 
seemed  to  rock  about  her,  she  stood  there  at  last  mo- 
tionless, gazing  far  beyond  the  seethe  of  the  water, 
breathing  a  prayer. 

Over  the  distant  city,  high  in  the  flare  of  its  lights, 
two  great,  black  shapes  were  crossing  slowly,  from  dark- 
ness into  darkness — continents  of  cloud. 

She  watched  them  pass,  and  the  spray  of  the  waves  and 
the  tears  of  her  heart  blinded  her  eyes.  But  the  storm 
within  and  the  storm  without  were  gradually  beginning 
to  subside. 

Dashing  away  the  spray  and  the  tears,  Marion  turned 
and  went  to  the  cabin  and  knocked  on  the  door. 

In  a  moment  it  was  opened  by  Enoch.  He  started 
back  confounded.  The  woman  at  the  table  stood  sur- 
veying the  visitor  with  smiling  inquiry.  But  soon  the 
smile  grew  bitter  in  apprehension. 

Marion  entered  and  closed  the  door,  then  paused  for 
an  instant,  silent. 

Dolly  instinctively  shrank  back.     There  was  so  much 

of  light  in  this  unexpected  visitor.     Perhaps  her  singular 

effect  of  lucency  as  the  hood  of  her  cloak  fell  back — a 

lucency  caused  not  only  by  the  fairness  of  her  skin,  the 

"  385 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

flame  of  her  hair,  and  the  deeper  fires  of  her  eyes,  but  also 
by  something  more  intangible — had  suddenly  disturbed 
the  custodian  of  night.  But  Dolly,  quickly  regaining  her 
composure,  seated  herself  in  Enoch's  chair  and  watched, 
with  what  little  nonchalance  she  could  muster,  this 
amazing  turn  in  her  life's  play. 

Marion  was  facing  Enoch.  "I  have  come,"  she  fal- 
tered, "to  ask  your  forgiveness.  I  have  done  you  a  great 
wrong."  Her  eyes  hung  on  his  look  and  were  melting 
with  humility. 

He  trembled  visibly;  he  could  say  nothing.  Speech 
and  reason  had  all  at  once  deserted  him.  He  could  not 
believe  she  was  really  there.  And  yet  her  voice — that 
lasting  voice  of  the  violoncello,  ineffably  sweet,  eternally 
reverberant — was  echoing  in  his  soul.  The  light  of  her 
eyes  kindled  in  his.  He  breathed  heavily.  Suddenly  all 
the  glory  of  heaven  had  been  opened  to  him.  A  celes- 
tial light  seemed  to  irradiate  his  being.  It  caught  him 
for  an  instant  and  transfigured  him.  .  .  .  Again  they 
centred  a  circle  of  flame.  .  .  .  Life  had  surged  to  the 
flood  in  him,  to  meet  her  own. 

A  low  tinkle  from  Dolly  recalled  him.  His  cheeks 
flushed  with  shame.  "Marion,"  he  whispered,  "go — 
go — I  will  follow  you." 

She  turned  slowly,  her  eyes  lingering  in  his,  and  left 
the  room. 

The  door  stood  open  between  them. 

"Enoch,"  said  Dolly,  petulantly,  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  it  all.  He  shot  a  look  of  hatred 
at  her. 

"See  here,"  she  flashed,  rising  nervously,  "where  are 
you  going?  I  want  the  manuscript." 

"  It  is  not  finished,"  he  told  her  with  calm  impatience, 
"  and  never  will  be." 

Her  body  seemed  to  vibrate  with  anger.  "You  gave 
me  your  word." 

386 


The   Heart  of   Marion 

Lloyd  smiled.  "I  said  that  if  I  didn't  do  as  you 
asked,  you  could  expose  me,  and  so  you  can." 

"Wait,  wait!"  she  cried,  now  beside  herself  with  impo- 
tent fury;  then,  returning  instinctively  to  the  vulgarity 
of  her  birthplace,  "Tu  bete,"  she  cried  after  him,  as  he 
left  her;  "quel  sot!" 

He  hastened  away. 

Dolly,  catching  up  her  storm-coat,  but  not  even  waiting 
to  throw  it  on,  went  out  in  a  panic  after  him.  She,  too, 
thought  nothing  of  the  tempest,  and,  besides,  it  was  dying 
now.  The  wind  had  fallen;  the  rain 'was  a  mere  drip- 
dropping  from  the  trees. 

Half-way  between  his  house  and  Marion's,  near  a 
prominent  rock,  Dolly  caught  up  with  him  on  the  shore. 

Nature  seemed  to  be  favoring  her  aim.  If  only  she 
could  talk  with  him  and  gain  time!  For  this,  the  mo- 
ment was  on  her  side.  The  clouds  overhead  were  break- 
ing. Low  above  the  eastern  shore  the  light  of  the  late- 
rising  moon  was  uncertainly  revealed. 

But  when,  as  she  stood  there,  it  showed  her  his  face, 
she  knew  that  nature  was  not  her  friend.  She  could  read 
her  sentence  in  his  eyes.  For  a  moment  he  paused  and 
looked  over  the  bay,  then  at  her  as  she  stood  with  her 
back  to  it — a  small,  dark  figure  close  to  the  water's  edge. 

She  caught  his  arm.  "  Let  me  see  your  eyes,"  she  said, 
plaintively;  "let  me  look  into  them."  When  he  did  so 
she  knew  the  end.  How  remarkable  her  insight  must 
have  been  could  she  discern  enough  in  that  instant  of 
scrutiny  to  surrender  and  let  him  go!  Yet  this  she  did. 
Against  the  woman  who  had  come  to  him,  against  that 
young  girl,  she  now  knew  that  all  her  art  was  of  no 
avail. 

"  I  am  beaten,"  she  faltered,  stepping  back  and  trying 
to  smile.  "I  am  beaten,  and  she  has  won."  Then  the 
reckless  fling  of  her  all-vivacious  little  bravery  returned 
to  lend  her  an  air.  Since  she  must  die,  she  would  die 

387 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

game;  she  would  laugh  pluckily  at  M'sieur  Death  and 
leave  behind  her  a  token  of  esteem. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  she  said,  brightly ;  "this  is  the  pass- 
ing of  Dolly  Cohen.  She  leaves  you  in  her  will  two 
things:  one,  the  delightful  little  story  of  a  literary  Jekyll 
and  Hyde,  which  is  still,  if  you  please,  in  type  and  most 
certainly  will  appear  in  the  July  number;  the  other — ah! 
the  other  legacy  is  better.  The  memory  of  the  exposure 
may  grow  dim  some  day,  when  the  world  is  tired  of 
laughing  at  you,  but  the  memory  of  this  will  never  do 
so.  Look  at  me!  Look  at  me — once  more."  She  stood 
there  vibrant  beside  the  rock,  a  small,  dark,  never-for- 
gettable figure  in  the  moonlight,  her  shadow  reaching 
towards  him. 

"There,"  she  said,  "that  is  what  I  leave  you.  I  leave 
you  the  memory  of  me.  I  am  your  evil  incorporate. 
Dramatic,  isn't  it?"  She  laughed  bitterly;  then,  with  a 
break  in  her  voice,  "  Am  I  cruel  ?  Ah !  but  I  do  not  want 
you  to  forget  me,  and  this  is  the  only  way.  Often  when 
you  stand  with  your  arm  about  her,  your  imagination 
will  see  me  thus,  laughing  at  you  out  of  the  night." 

Again  her  laughter  tinkled  softly  in  the  open,  cold  as 
the  moon. 

But  when  he  had  left  her  he  heard  a  sound  like  a  sti- 
fled sob,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  amid  the  dropping 
of  rain  from  the  shore-side  branches  in  the  direction  of 
her  carriage. 

Hastening  after  Marion,  Enoch  overtook  her  in  the 
orchard.  Together  they  walked  to  the  house.  "Marion, 
oh,  great-hearted  Marion, my  guardian  spirit!  And  yet 
— and  yet — I  can  never  say  again  to  you  what  I  said 
before.  She  is  determined  to  expose  me,  and  a  man  de- 
based by  such  a  stigma  would  not  be  worthy  of  your 
heart." 

On  the  steps  of  the  veranda  Marion  turned  full  in  the 

388 


The    Heart    of   Marion 

light  and  smiled  down  to  him.  "She  will  not  expose  you. 
She  will  be  too  late.  I've  thought  it  out.  There's  but 
oneway.  Whom  have  you  wronged  ?  Whom  have  you 
deceived  ?  You  have  deceived  the  world.  To  the  world 
you  should  make  your  confession." 

He  blanched  visibly. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  will  be  hard,"  she  said,  softly;  "but 
the  hardest  things  at  a  time  like  this  are  best."  Her 
figure  seemed  suffusive  of  radiance.  "On  Monday  you 
dine  at — " 

"Stop,"  he  interrupted,  half  between  fervor  and  bit- 
terness. "I  know  what  you  mean.  I  had  thought  of 
that."  He  averted  his  face  and  gazed  across  the  water. 

When  he  turned  back  Marion  had  left  him;  the  door 
was  closed. 

It  would  now  be  well  for  him  to  be  alone. 


Ill 

The   Triumph    of  Life 

dinner  of  admission  given  by  the  Millennium 
1  Club  to  Enoch  Lloyd  was  one  of  the  best  attended 
in  the  history  of  that  famous  association.  The  dining- 
room — largest  of  all  the  club's  apartments — was  almost 
filled  to  its  full  capacity.  Five  tables,  interminably  long, 
were  lined  by  unbroken  files  of  diners. 

At  the  head  of  the  middle  table  sat  Mr.  Lee,  the  club's 
president;  at  the  foot,  according  to  custom,  its  newly 
elected  member. 

But  Lloyd,  as  he  sat  there,  saw  few  faces  turned  to 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  the  etiquette  of  the  club  to  make 
these  gracious  formalities  as  easy  as  possible  for  the 
fledglings.  And  so  it  was.  The  maiden  speech  of  a 
novice  would  be  cause  enough  for  embarrassment.  They 
could  all  remember  that  ordeal.  Even  the  numerous 
waiters,  long  versed  by  instinct  in  the  club's  most  cher- 
ished traditions,  failed  to  follow  the  example  of  their  fel- 
lows, noticeable  at  public  affairs  of  the  kind,  and  fore- 
bore  to  cast  covert  glances  at  the  guest  of  honor.  As  for 
the  menu,  it,  too,  conformed  to  the  venerable  unwritten 
laws  of  the  institution.  "  Have  them  short,"  one  of  the 
founders  had  long  ago  suggested.  "Give  him  a  chance. 
Have  them  short  and  simple,  then  he  won't  have  time  to 
get  in  a  feeze,  and  he  won't  be  handicapped  by  indiges- 
tion." This  they  had  always  adhered  to.  Five  or  six 
courses  and,  through  them,  one  kind  of  wine — to  wit, 
champagne — then  at  once  the  president's  toast,  and, 

390 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

next,  the  novitiate's  answer.  There  must  be  nothing 
elaborate,  nothing  stilted,  nothing  suggestive  of  that 
odious  term,  a  "function." 

The  toast  of  the  president  was  never  wordy.  The  new 
member,  moreover,  a  few  days  before  his  ordeal,  usually 
received  a  gentle  hint  as  to  the  eloquence  of  brevity.  By 
natural  choice  it  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Cuthbert  thus  to 
instruct  the  whelps  in  the  ways  of  the  lions.  As  a  rule, 
he  had  proved  himself  keenly  adequate  to  the  task  be- 
fore him,  but  in  the  present  instance  he  purposely  neg- 
lected the  precaution.  Thanks  to  that  constant  stitch- 
ing process  so  unremittent  in  his  mind,  he  had  pieced 
together  this  and  that  with  remarkable  ingenuity  until, 
after  several  months  of  deduction,  he  had  worked  on  his 
brain  a  wonderfully  symmetrical  pattern. 

He  sat  to-night  at  Lloyd's  right,  being  the  seconder 
of  his  friend's  name.  To  the  left  was  young  Pritchard. 
the  sculptor,  who  had  received  the  honors  of  the  last 
banquet. 

So  much  for  the  order  of  precedence.  It  stopped  here. 
Punctiliousness  was  obnoxious  to  the  company.  They 
sat  as  they  pleased,  according  to  interests  and  friend- 
ships. For  instance,  at  the  head  of  another  table  in  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  presided  the  veteran  humorist.  Of 
course,  at  his  side  sat  the  dark-bearded  man  of  world- 
wide travel,  next  to  whom  the  energetic  sociologist 
seemed  striving  to  keep  a  hold  on  the  conversation  by 
the  aid  of  appropriate  interjections.  Enoch  saw  Charlie 
Parker,  on  one  side  of  Mr.  Lee,  hobnobbing  over  his 
Camembert  with  the  professor  of  Greek,  who  sat  on  the 
other. 

But  now  that  the  members  were  moving  back  their 
chairs  and  smoke  began  to  ascend  heavily  above  them, 
he  gave  no  heed  to  personalities.  It  was  as  though  the 
fumes  of  their  cigars  had  entered  his  brain.  He  saw 
nothing  clearly — merely  a  long,  white  streak,  narrowing 

391 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

in  perspective  till  it  reached  Mr.  Lee;  merely  two  long 
lines  of  white  patches  beside  it,  which  were  innumerable 
shirt-fronts;  merely  these  and  the  smoke,  heavily  co- 
hering. 

The  sight  of  the  publisher's  face,  round,  red,  and  jovial, 
had  become  for  the  moment  almost  unbearable.  Enoch 
felt  as  though  his  good  angel  had  assumed  a  comic  mask, 
hopelessly  non-conducive  to  inspiration.  And  the  chirp- 
ing of  Cuthbert  was  worse  still.  What  ironical  torment- 
or had  put  them  one  and  all  in  such  genial  spirits?  How 
much  easier  had  they  begun  already  to  look  at  him 
askance.  But  no;  their  glances,  now  directed  towards 
him  in  pleasant  anticipation,  were  indicative  only  of 
fellowship,  welcome,  and  good-will. 

Little  could  they  guess  the  true  nature  of  the  ordeal 
before  him.  They  considered  it  merely  the  making  of  a 
maiden  speech.  They  could  not  have  dreamed  that  his 
heart  stood  still,  bound  as  by  a  thousand  cords,  and  lit- 
erally painful.  They  could  not  have  imagined  that  the 
very  soul  in  him  was  numb.  If  he  appeared  pale  to  them 
and  nervous,  they  attributed  it,  no  doubt,  to  the  natural 
stage-fright  of  a  first  effort.  And  so  they  were  madden- 
ingly encouraging  him  with  their  glances. 

Stage-fright  ?  How  futile  a  description  of  his  feelings ! 
Stage-fright?  No;  it  was  mortal  agony.  The  comic 
masks  and  the  white  shirt-fronts  and  the  white  streak  of 
the  table-cloth  and,  even  worse,  the  fog  of  smoke  got 
into  his  brain  and  all  but  deranged  it.  He  was  cold  as 
death,  unreal  as  a  forgotten  dream.  His  throat  was 
parched  and  felt  swollen.  He  was  sick,  not  only  at  heart, 
but  with  an  actual  sensation  of  nausea. 

Nevertheless,  he  sat  in  his  chair  and  crossed  his  legs, 
talking,  smoking,  over-imitating  the  general  ease.  When 
Mr.  Lee  rose  to  toast  him  he  even  contrived  a  smile. 

The  little,  old  publisher  stood  up,  squared  his  shoul- 
ders, beamed  at  Enoch,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  beneath 

392 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

his  coat-tails,  which  fairly  waggled  with  animation  as  he 
spoke,  delivered  himself  in  this  wise: 

"Gentlemen,  the  worst  of  it  is  there's  nothing  to  say. 
My  thunder  has  been  stolen  by  the  world  at  large.  I 
need  scarcely  introduce  Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd.  I  need  scarce- 
ly tell  you  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  promising  appren- 
tices in  the  world's  workshop.  You  know  that  already." 
He  smiled.  "Moreover,  it  is  poor  policy  to  overpraise 
apprentices."  He  paused,  his  coat-tails  motionless  with 
satisfaction.  Then,  "But,  joking  aside,"  he  continued, 
taking  up  a  glass  of  champagne;  "trie  honors,  as  usual, 
are  even.  I  am  referring,  gentlemen" — he  leaned  for- 
ward impressively  with  finger-tips  touching  the  table 
— "I  am  referring  to  the  honor  done  the  Millennium 
Club  by  Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd,  and  the  honor  done  Mr. 
Enoch  Lloyd  by  the  Millennium  Club.  He  is  worthy,  I 
know,  of  our  best  ideals.  In  short,  he  is  a  man.  And 
as  for  us" — again  he  paused,  moving  his  squirrel-like 
cheeks  as  though  there  were  nuts  in  them — "as  for 
ourselves,  well,  the  new  member  is  now  one  of  us. 
There  can  be  no  need  to  tell  him.  Gentlemen" — this 
with  a  quaint  dignity,  and  catching  up  his  glass — "I 
toast  Mr.  Enoch  Lloyd."  His  eyes  beamed  over  the 
brim  at  his  young  protege,  as  if  this  were  the  pleasantest 
moment  of  his  declining  years. 

A  round  of  applause  followed  this  informal  greeting; 
then,  as  Mr.  Lee  sat  down,  every  face  was  turned  to 
Enoch. 

The  silence  seemed  to  be  that  of  a  sea  of  listeners. 
The  world  was  listening  for  his  voice.  Before  he  rose 
his  face  was  gray  as  ashes.  The  words  of  his  patron  had 
meant  nothing.  The  toast  had  seemed  little  more  than 
ironical  gibberish  in  his  ears.  It  was  merely  an  inarticu- 
late expression  of  reproach.  The  smoke  had  seemed  to 
obscure  even  the  voice  that  had  offered  it. 

Enoch  was  before  the  tribunal  of  his  peers.  Until  he 
393 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

rose  he  trembled  in  his  chair.  The  cigarette  was  shaking 
in  his  fingers.  He  was  adrift  on  an  ocean  of  falling 
waves.  The  sensation  of  sinking  into  nothingness  re- 
sembled that  of  a  common  nightmare,  and  the  depths 
were  without  a  bottom.  He  was  thinking  of  nothing. 
He  had  become  little  more  than  a  sentient  being,  beat 
upon  by  impressions  that  sapped  his  strength.  Stage- 
fright  ?  No  ;  it  was  mortal  agony  —  this  having  to 
wait  and  sit  there  and  cross  his  legs  and  smoke  and 
smile. 

But  when  he  stood  up  in  the  breathless  silence  they 
saw  a  change  come  over  him.  The  mere  act  of  rising 
appeared  to  vivify  his  bearing.  His  face,  white  as  the 
linen  cloth,  seemed  strangely  luminous.  And  though 
they  saw  his  hand  tremble  as  he  brushed  back  the  hair 
from  his  forehead,  it  was  clinched  firmly  when  he  low- 
ered it  beside  him.  His  eyes,  gazing  straight  ahead, 
high  and  far,  were  almost  supernaturally  clear. 

Pritchard,  looking  up  at  him,  felt  a  lack  in  the  sculp- 
tor's art.  Could  he  have  reproduced  those  eyes  in  mar- 
ble he  might  have  called  the  work  "A  Vision  of  Truth." 

For  a  moment  Enoch  was  voiceless.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  their  presence.  He  appeared — they  after- 
wards remembered — as  if  summoning  a  power  from  be- 
yond. Pritchard  thought  the  set  of  his  head  was  the 
perfect  poise  of  inspiration. 

"Gentlemen,  I  regret  that,  instead  of  accepting  the 
great  honor  you  have  done  me,  I  must  withdraw  my 
name  from  the  membership  of  the  Millennium  Club.  I 
am  not  worthy  to  belong.  I  must  resign."  He  paused 
a  moment  and  stood  marble-white,  his  head  now  slightly 
bent,  but  still  with  his  eyes  far-looking  and  upraised  as 
if  to  the  spaces  that  surround  humanity. 

The  air  was  breathless.  No  one  stirred.  Perhaps 
many  of  these  men  here  gathered  together — men  who  had 
created  and  immortalized  the  great  moments  of  life  in 

394 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

painting,  sculpture,  and  literature — knew  in  their  hearts 
that  one  of  these  moments  was  now  at  hand.  The  crisis 
of  a  man's  life  was  about  to  be  enacted  before  them. 
One  and  all  they  sat  watching  the  death  -  white  face, 
the  bent  head,  the  luminous  eyes  of  the  youthful  author, 
with  tense  expectation  in  their  gaze.  The  trivialities  of 
life,  so  important  through  the  larger  part  of  it,  were  utter- 
ly forgotten.  His  peers  were  waiting  breathless  for  his 
self-imposed  confession. 

Yet  Lloyd,  the  centre  of  all  their  wonder — Lloyd  who 
had  been  so  sensitive  to  public  opinion  that  a  word  from 
Cuthbert  until  this  moment  could  have  made  him  wince, 
stood  there  through  the  crucial  ordeal  almost  oblivious 
of  his  surroundings. 

"I  owe  a  confession  to  the  world,  and  nothing  could 
mo're  strongly  demand  it  than  this  occasion.  You  who 
have  read  The  Greatest  Good,  and  have  offered  me  a  place 
among  you,  are  surely  entitled  to  an  explanation.  Mr. 
Lee  tells  you  that  I  am  a  man.  He  is  terribly  mistaken. 
I  have  not  proved  myself  worthy  of  that  noble  appella- 
tion." He  paused  with  a  look  of  limitless  sorrow,  and 
Cuthbert,  beside  him,  had  no  heart  to  glance  up  for  more 
than  an  instant.  After  he  had  done  so  the  little  critic 
nervously  took  off  his  rimless  glasses,  rubbed  them  clear, 
and,  forgetting  to  resume  them,  held  them  in  his  hand 
tightly.  Be  the  past  what  it  might,  Enoch  this  moment 
was  the  picture  of  manhood. 

"The  story  is  briefly  told.  My  book  had  failed.  The 
failure,  together  with  a  private  disappointment,  un- 
manned me.  I  sat  one  night  alone  in  my  country  camp 
and  I  cringed — yes,  cringed  like  a  coward  before  my  mis- 
fortunes." Again  he  paused,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
gazed  at  the  lines  of  faces,  avoiding  only  the  bewildered 
little  countenance  of  Stephen  Lee.  Many  a  glance  was 
lowered  as  he  summoned  the  courage  to  meet  it.  The 
strength  of  his  look  appalled  the  listeners.  Straight, 

395 


The    Triumph    of    Life 

white,  firm,  he  stood  there  unflinching,  merciless  to  his 
pride,  humbling  himself  before  them.  Yet  they  noticed 
a  something  of  indefinable  pride  in  his  very  abasement. 
And  there  was,  for  the  strength  had  come  to  him. 
Though  it  had  been  Marion  who  had  inspired  this  eternal 
moment,  the  capacity  was  in  him  to  live  it;  the  spark 
was  already  there  to  burst  into  flame.  She  had  intimate- 
ly known  his  spirit. 

"As  I  sat  alone,  beaten  by  failure,  I  asked  myself,  'Is 
it  worth  while?'  Why  struggle  on?  My  name  would 
always  mean  nothing.  How  I  had  pictured  that  name 
as  famous,  how  I  had  been  almost  unconsciously,  self- 
deceptively,  all  the  time  longing  for  recognition  and 
fame — fame — fame — while  assuring  myself  that  I  scorned 
it,  I  need  not  try  to  tell  you.  Nor  do  I  blame  fate  for  all 
that  has  happened,  though  fate,  a  malevolent  fate,  had 
much  to  do  with  my  downfall.  Perhaps  you  have  heard 
of  an  authoress  whose  name,  on  account  of  its  mere  sound, 
would  bring  a  smile  to  your  lips  on  any  other  occasion, 
but  whose  work  it  would  be  even  beneath  you  to  despise. 
Her  name  is  Dolly  Cohen." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  A  faint  snap  had  sounded  be- 
side him.  He  glanced  down.  Cuthbert  was  ruefully  in- 
specting a  pair  of  glasses  that  had  suddenly  been  bro- 
ken by  the  pressure  of  his  closed  palm. 

Enoch  cast  a  fearless  glance  at  the  files  of  innumerable 
faces,  but  still  avoided  Mr.  Lee's.  No;  they  were  not 
smiling.  They  were  dark  with  perplexity  and  a  vague 
suspicion. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  declared,  in  accents  cold  as  steel,  "I 
am  Dolly  Cohen." 

This  said,  they  saw  him  square  his  shoulders,  then,  as 
though  purposely  martyrizing  himself,  he  gazed  for  the 
first  time  straight  into  the  dismayed  eyes  of  his  patron, 
Stephen  Lee. 

From  Cuthbert  there  came  a  short,  sharp  sigh  of  relief, 
396 


The   Triumph   of*   Life 

of  the  sort  that  a  man  heaves  when  the  climax  of  a  trag- 
edy is  over. 

The  listeners  stirred  restlessly,  but  there  was  not  a 
single  whisper  of  astonishment.  They  hung  on  his 
words  spellbound;  and  yet  there  was  nothing  dramatic 
in  his  manner — simply  a  fixed  intensity. 

"  I  am  Dolly  Cohen.  That  night,  just  after  the  news 
of  my  failure  had  reached  me,  I  sat  in  my  room  with 
paper  before  me,  intending  to  try  again.  But,  instead, 
I  only  loafed  there  and  scribbled  my  name,  and  won- 
dered if  it  would  ever  be  famous.  As  I  did  so  I  hit  upon 
this  pseudonym  by  a  curious  fatality.  And  it  sounded 
so  antagonistic,  so  diametrically  opposed  to  the  name 
Enoch  Lloyd,  that  I  laughed  and  immediately  started  to 
imagine  what  sort  of  book  a  woman  by  that  name  would 
write.  I  decided  her  books  would  be  flippant,  sordid, 
and  trashy,  with,  perhaps,  a  sprinkling  of  graceful  im- 
propriety, and  thereupon  I  set  out  to  write  just  such  a 
novel.  I  succeeded  so  admirably,  or  rather  so  ignobly, 
that  soon  the  joke  became  dead  earnest.  The  novel  had 
an  enormous  sale.  Next,  of  course,  there  came  urgent 
requests  for  a  second,  then  a  third,  'somewhat  spicier'; 
the  requirements  were — a  demand  with  which  I  seemed 
more  and  more  capable  of  complying.  Realizing  this 
downward  tendency,  I  resolved  at  last  to  drop  the  whole 
infamous  business.  But  it  was  now  impossible." 

His  voice  fell ;  his  eyes  had  a  slightly  haunted  look ;  his 
face  was  drawn. 

"  It  was  now  impossible.  A  woman  had  assumed  the 
name  of  Dolly  Cohen  and  was  enjoying  a  spurious  fame 
as  the  author  of  my  novels." 

At  this  there  was  a  second  stir;  many  started.  Enoch 
heard  whispered  exclamations  of  astonishment.  He 
forged  ahead. 

"I  met  her,  and  she  threatened  to  expose  me  if  I 
stopped.  Even  then  I  would  have  preferred  exposure 

397 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

to  such  a  slavery  had  not  my  name  suddenly  become 
famous  in  England  and  later  here.  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  that  name  being  dragged  in  the  mire,  and  so 
I  chose  the  weaker  way.  Of  the  woman  I  need  say 
no  more,  and  little  of  the  sophistries  with  which  I 
strove  to  deceive  myself.  I  decided  to  contribute  to 
both  types  of  literature,  to  the  higher  sort  as  Enoch 
Lloyd,  to  the  lower  as  Dolly  Cohen,  but  the  thing  was 
impossible."  He  paused.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  his 
voice  had  faltered;  now,  for  the  first  time,  his  glance  was 
shrinkingly  cast  down.  Nevertheless,  he  continued  to 
the  end.  "What  was  my  surprise  to  find  that  I  could 
no  longer  do  work  of  the  right  sort.  It  did  not  ring  true. 
It  had  the  discord  of  charlatanry.  It  was  obviously  a 
sham."  He  glanced  at  Mr.  Lee  as  though  for  a  tacit 
assent,  and  the  old  publisher,  thus  hearing  his  letter 
quoted,  inclined  his  head. 

Enoch  now  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height.  "I 
have  decided  that  this  confession  to  you,  who  are  best 
fitted  to  sit  upon  my  case,  is  the  only  means  of  making  a 
turning-point  in  my  life.  It  was  as  though  something 
had  to  be  torn  out  of  me.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
this  way.  Hereafter  I  shall  strive  to  regain  that  which 
I  have  lost.  I  shall  work  and  work  to  do  so  till  I  die ;  but, 
gentlemen" — his  voice  fell  very  low — "this  is  the  last 
time  that  I  can  ever  accept  or  you  can  offer  the  gracious 
hospitality  of  the  Millennium  Club." 

Once  more  he  paused.  The  recollection  of  a  somewhat 
similar  scene,  yet,  alas!  how  widely  different  —  a  scene 
once  enacted  at  college — had  recurred  to  his  ever-sensi- 
tive memory.  He  had  closed  his  speech  in  an  eloquent 
debate  against  Cuthbert  Morton,  and  the  hands  of  his  fel- 
low-collegians were  loudly  applauding  him,  those  hands 
that  had  begun  to  shape  his  destiny.  He  could  hear 
them  clapping  and  clapping  now.  Then  suddenly  the 
scene  faded,  and  the  sound.  There  was  profound  silence. 

398 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

He  looked  at  the  lines  of  listeners.  No  one  was  clapping 
him  to-night  —  not  a  soul.  The  faces  wore  various  ex- 
pressions, some  sympathetic,  some  sad,  and  a  few  con- 
demnatory. None  of  these  last  were  the  looks  of  those 
who  knew  him.  He  saw  Parker,  the  dramatist,  leaning 
forward  with  a  kind  of  encouragement  and  appreciation. 
But  the  face  of  the  veteran  humorist  was  deeply  grave. 
Mr.  Lee  seemed  lost  in  profound  abstraction.  The 
elbows  of  Cuthbert  were  on  the  table,  his  hands  clasped 
close  and  fingers  intertwined  so  tightly  that  their  tips 
were  white  as  the  linen.  Pritchard,  .at  Lloyd's  left,  was 
breathing  hard. 

"There  is  but  one  extenuating  circumstance,"  con- 
cluded Enoch,  slowly;  "but  I  do  not  mention  it  to  excuse 
myself.  I  cite  it  merely  as  an  amazing  example  of  fatal- 
ity, also  to  reveal  to  you,  in  a  way  that  whole  volumes 
could  not  depict,  the  extraordinary  doubleness  of  the  life 
I  have  been  leading."  He  leaned  forward  with  hands  on 
the  table.  "There  is  another  name  in  the  name  Cohen. 
Another  name  is  buried  in  those  five  letters. ' '  He  paused , 
and  they  saw  him  suppress  a  shudder.  "That  name  is 
Enoch.  There  is  also  another  name  in  Dolly.  Trans- 
pose its  letters  correctly,  and  the  name  it  hides  is  Lloyd. 
That  night,  when  I  was  alone  with  failure  and  I  scribbled 
my  name  again  and  again,  the  discovery  came  to  me  of 
this  astonishing  coincidence.  I  treated  the  thing  as  a 
joke.  It  became  a  tragedy.  The  anagram  of  Enoch 
Lloyd  is  Dolly  Cohen!" 

A  tremor  ran  through  him  from  head  to  foot.  He 
could  no  longer  restrain  it.  And  the  power  of  speech 
deserted  him.  His  eyes  were  blurred. 

Turning,  he  left  them  in  the  midst  of  a  pregnant 
silence. 


IV 
Toasting    the    Bride 

WHILE  Enoch  thus  took  the  tide  of  his  affairs  at 
flood,  another   man  proceeded  to   force  an  issue 
after  a  widely  different  fashion. 

Dolly — or,  better,  Celeste  hereafter — was  enjoying  the 
hospitality  of  the  Washington  Hotel.  With  Madame 
Moreau  she  sat  in  the  kitchen,  daintily  sampling  the 
pastry  of  her  sire.  Bonhomme  was  nosing  for  crumbs 
beneath  them.  Out  in  the  restaurant  lights  were  low, 
chairs  stacked  on  tables.  The  last  of  the  diners  had 
taken  his  leave  some  time  before.  It  was  late  in  the 
evening. 

Just  within  the  doorway  connecting  the  kitchen  with 
the  little  office,  where  were  kept  the  books,  and  on  the 
high  shelf  those  money-making  bottles  of  cordials  and 
liqueurs,  stood  an  old  safe.  The  nibblers  of  pate's  were 
scowling  at  the  paternal  chef.  He  sat  at  present  in  the 
office,  scratching  his  head  and  surveying  the  safe  in  per- 
plexity. "This  time  I  do  really  forget."  He  turned  the 
knob  vainly.  "I  never  can  remember."  He  rattled  it 
angrily.  "What  can  I  do?" 

Celeste  pouted.     "What  can  I  do?" 

"Yes,"  demanded  madame,  sputtering  crumbs;  "what 
can  she  do?" 

"  It's  only  a  loan,  you  know, "said  Celeste,  wheedlingly. 

"And  we  brought  her  into  the  world,"  observed  ma- 
dame,  in  the  weighty  tones  of  responsibility. 

400 


Toasting  the  Bride 

Monsieur  spun  the  knob  around.  "So  we  did.  C'est 
bien  vrai,  £a;  but  what's  to  be  done?"  He  frowned  at 
the  safe  with  exaggerated  helplessness. 

"I  know,"  said madame.  "I  remember.  You  set  the 
combination  so  you  could  not  forget  it.  I  made  you. 
The  combination,  it  is  our  three  ages,  one  after  the  other, 
yours,  Celeste's,  and  mine." 

Monsieur  bit  his  lip.  Suddenly  he  smiled  with  covert 
cunning.  "Yes,  yes;  our  ages.  Let  us  see,  First, 
mine — forty — "  He  studied  the  dial. 

"Fifty!"  corrected  madame,  vehemently. 

"Ah,  yes,  fifty,"  he  admitted.  "  I  never  know.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  I  am  so  young  at  heart."  He  turned 
the  knob  to  the  first  number.  "Now,"  said  he,  "to  the 
left.  Let  me  think.  Celeste's  age?  Yes,  yes — thirty." 

Celeste  winced,  but  the  matter  was  too  important  for 
trifling.  She  was  willing  to  confess  to  thirty  years  if 
thirty  would  open  the  treasury. 

"There,"  pursued  monsieur,  bending  to  one  knee. 
"Now  once  more  to  the  right.  Now  the  dear  mother's 
age?  Yes — forty-five."  He  surreptitiously  winked  at 
the  circle  of  figures. 

Madame  said  nothing.  She  was  blissfully  munching 
a  mouthful  of  puff  pastry.  If  he  had  forgotten  five 
years  of  her  life  and  thought  her  so  young,  all  right.  As 
the  combination  had  been  set  to  fifty,  the  safe,  of  course, 
would  open  to  nothing  less.  She  was  only  too  willing, 
however,  to  leave  those  undesirable  five  years  locked  up 
in  it.  Celeste  would  have  to  wait. 

Monsieur  turned  the  knob  and  made  a  superhuman 
effort  to  pull  the  door  open.  It  held  against  him.  With 
a  sour  grimace  he  jumped  up,  flung  his  chair  back,  and 
came  into  the  kitchen.  "My  poot  little  one,  I  cannot 
help  you." 

Celeste's  eyes  flashed  angrily.  "Her  age  is  fifty,  and 
you  know  it.  Try  that." 

36  401 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

At  this  outrage  a  shower  of  crumbs  filled  the  air. 
Madame  was  choking  with  offended  vanity.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  a  vixen.  Now  the  minx  should  never  have  an- 
other penny.  Her  impertinence  afforded  a  good  excuse 
for  refusal.  And  madame,  like  her  husband,  was  for 
once  glad  to  say  "no."  Ce'leste,  in  all  these  months  of 
affluence,  had  not  repaid  a  single  sou.  Worse  still,  she 
had  never  once  invited  her  parents  to  her  palatial  apart- 
ment. They  knew  well  enough  of  its  existence;  the 
bohemians  who  came  there  to  dine  had  so  frequently 
mentioned  their  queen. 

"Jules,"  said  madame,  moodily,  "it  is  well  you  cannot 
open  the  safe.  We  have  already  done  too  much  for 
her." 

Monsieur  rubbed  his  hands  and  nodded.  ' '  Just  as  you 
say,  my  dear." 

Ce'leste  sprang  to  her  feet.  "You  are  both  misers," 
she  cried,  angrily.  "You're  a  couple  of  unnatural  par- 
ents." 

Monsieur  smiled  at  the  floor. 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  madame,  in  disgust;  "that  from 
her.  Unnatural,  indeed — and  she  so  unnatural  a  daugh- 
ter. Bah!"  She  rose  heavily  and  turned  on  Ce'leste. 
"Go  back  to  your  swindling.  Get  out  of  here.  We 
don't  want  you.  You  would  ruin  us." 

Celeste's  lip  curled;  she  cast  a  look  of  bitter  ridicule 
at  the  purpling  face  of  Mere  Moreau.  "Oh,  very  well, 
Madame  the  Terror;  but — " 

"S-sh!"  said  monsieur,  suddenly.  "Some  one  has 
come  for  supper.  How  unusual!" 

They  followed  his  glance.  Looking  through  the  office, 
which  opened  on  the  restaurant  over  a  low  counter  for 
the  dispensing  of  smokables  and  receiving  of  payments, 
they  saw  a  short,  thick-set  individual  take  down  a  chair 
and  seat  himself.  In  another  minute  he  was  knocking 
loudly  on  the  table  with  his  knuckles. 

402 


Toasting   the   Bride 

Monsieur  Moreau  ran  out  by  the  hall,  hastening  to  re- 
spond. 

While  madame  and  her  "little  one"  in  the  kitchen 
recovered  their  self-control  as  best  they  might,  the  pro- 
prietor had  a  peculiar  experience  out  in  the  hallway. 
After  taking  the  order  of  his  new  customer,  he  was  start- 
ing back  when  he  heard  a  low  summons,  almost  a  whis- 
per, from  the  vicinity  of  the  front  door.  Turning  sharp- 
ly, he  hurried  to  the  vestibule.  Here  stood  a  tall  man 
of  a  personality  that  caused  Monsieur  Moreau  to  quake 
visibly,  the  stranger  was  so  domineering  of  aspect,  so 
frigid.  "She  is  here,"  he  said  at  once,  with  a  short  nod. 
"  Don't  deny  it.  I  followed  her." 

"Who?"  stammered  Moreau.     "Who  is  here?" 

"Dolly  Cohen." 

"Nom  de  Dieu,"  thought  Moreau,  "the  little  one  is 
lost.  This  is  one  of  her  dupes  or  an  officer  of  the  law. 
At  last  she  will  be  imprisoned."  Then,  aloud,  "Dolly 
Cohen?"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully.  "  Mais,  non,  m'sieur; 
there  is  no  one  of  that  name — " 

The  stranger  swore.  "Don't  tell  me  that.  I  know 
she's  here,  whatever  her  name  is,  and  I  intend  to  see  her. 
I  heard  her  voice  just  now — back  there."  Whereat  he 
stalked  past  the  terrified  proprietor  and  made  straight 
for  the  kitchen. 

When  Celeste  saw  him  she  sank  to  a  chair,  and  ma- 
dame  stood  dumbly  glaring  at  them.  Monsieur,  tiptoe- 
ing in,  beckoned  to  his  wife.  As  she  joined  him  in  the 
office,  "Leave  them  alone,"  said  he,  cautiously.  "We 
must  not  be  mixed  up  in  this  affair.  It  might  land  us 
in  the  station-house." 

The  vast  bosom  of  Mere  Moreau  began  to  heave.  She 
closed  the  kitchen  door.  "Oh,  what  shall  we  do?  What 
shall  we  do?  Our  pauvre  p'tite!  And  here  is  m'sieur 
waiting  for  his  supper." 

Jules  leaned  out  over  the  counter.  "  Pardon,  m'sieur, 
403 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

there  will  be  a  slight  delay  in  the  cooking  of  the 
duck." 

The  thick-set  gentleman,  of  an  opulent  Hibernian  ap- 
pearance, nodded  amiably. 

Meanwhile,  "Well,"  said  Celeste,  in  the  kitchen,  re- 
gaining her  composure,  "how  did  you — " 

Her  visitor  laughed  shortly.     "I  followed  you." 

She  toyed  uneasily  with  her  knife  and  fork.  "Well, 
what's  up,  Matthew?  You  seem  impatient  about  some- 
thing." 

"I  am.     I  have  come  to  marry  you — now." 

Her  face  paled;  her  hand  clinched  on  the  table-knife, 
but  she  laughed  softly.  "Now?  How  absurd!  Have 
you  been  drinking  again?" 

"No,  I  have  not.     I  mean  what  I  say." 

She  held  up  the  knife  and  her  laughter  tinkled  gently. 
"Do  you  know  I'd  like  to  stab  you  with  that?  It  would 
really  entertain  me." 

He  came  close  to  her  and  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  sent 
the  knife  rattling  on  the  floor.  "That,  for  your  stab !  I 
don't  fear  you  any  more;  and,  by  God,  I  will  have  you!" 

At  first  she  said  nothing.  She  might  fare  far  worse 
as  Ce'leste  Moreau  than  as  the  rich  Mrs.  Matthew  Steele. 
He  had  straightened  out.  He  would  not  drag  her  down. 
He  was  now  reliable  and  very  strong,  stronger  even  than 
the  usually  fatal  habit  into  which  she  had  so  capricious- 
ly led  him.  Had  he  still  been  the  loose-lipped,  blear- 
eyed  monomaniac  of  a  month  ago,  nothing  could  have 
induced  her  to  marry  him.  She  would  have  preferred  a 
death  by  inches  to  life  with  that  haunting  creature,  that 
thing  of  her  own  making.  But  now  that  he  was  again 
the  sure,  virile  business  man  of  a  year  ago,  he  seemed 
to  be,  after  all,  the  most  logical  way  of  escape  from  hos- 
tile circumstance.  There  was,  however,  one  difficulty. 
What  of  the  novel  he  had  demanded?  Well,  sometimes 
the  truth  is  the  best  expedient,  especially  before  marriage. 

404 


Toasting   the   Bride 

If  she  waited  till  his  infatuation  was  less  intense  he  might 
not  so  readily  forgive.     And  the  game  was  up,  anyway. 

"I  am  not  Dolly  Cohen,"  she  said,  suddenly.  "I  did 
not  write  those  books.  I  stole  the  name." 

To  her  astonishment,  Steele  laughed.  As  usual,  he 
was  unsurprisable.  Perhaps  he  had  guessed,  lately.  '  It 
doesn't  matter,"  he  told  her.  "  Of  course,  I  had  an  ink- 
ling. Those  proof-sheets  meant  something.  How  did 
you  dare  to  let  me  see  the  heading  of  that  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  story?  You  might  have  known — " 

Celeste  shrugged.  "Oh,  I  was  desperate,  that's  all. 
But  have  you  guessed  who  wrote  those  novels?" 

Steele  smiled  and  was  about  to  answer  when  she  laid 
a  hand  on  his  arm  and  stopped  him.  He  could  not  un- 
derstand the  tone  of  her  voice.  He  had  never  before 
heard  it.  "No  matter,"  she  said;  "if  you  do  suspect, 
don't  say  so.  Don't  tell  any  one — even  yourself!  This 
is  my  last  condition.  Promise  me?" 

He  bent  over  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his  huge  paw. 
"Yes,  and,  besides,  I  wouldn't  anyway,  even  if  I  posi- 
tively knew.  That  would  be  folly.  The  books  will  sell 
for  a  time  on  Dolly  Cohen's  name.  They're  not  dead 
yet.  I'll  keep  them  going." 

Ce'leste  sprang  up,  paused,  shivered  slightly,  then 
kissed  him  full  on  the  lips.  "There!  That's  my  first 
kiss!" 

Steele  crushed  her  to  him  like  a  big  animal.  "I  be- 
lieve it,"  he  said,  with  brutal  passion;  "that's  why  I 
want  you." 

This  was  her  reward  for  having  so  long  followed  her 
father's  advice:  "Be  unobtainable."  Steele  knew  that 
she  had  refused  his  fortune  before  marriage  had  been 
proposed,  also  the  wealth  of  others. 

In  a  moment  she  broke  from  him.  "  So  I  shall  still  be 
famous?" 

"Yes.'' 

405 


The  Triumph    of   Life 

"And  you  don't  mind  knowing  who  I  really  am?" 

"No;  I'd  take  you  out  of  the  gutter,  provided  you  were 
an  honest  woman." 

She  laughed  with  evident  satisfaction.  What  a  relief 
it  was  to  be  real !  "I'm  Celeste Moreau.  My  father  and 
mother  keep  this  hotel." 

"Good!"  said  Steele.     "I  was  once  a  printer's  devil." 

She  studied  his  eyes.     "  You  won't  drink  any  more?" 

"Is  there  any  need  to  ask  me  that?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Well,  then,  to-morrow  I'll  marry 
you." 

Again  Steele  smiled.  "No,  you  won't;  you'll  do  it 
now." 

"Now!     But  how  can  I?" 

For  answer  Steele  opened  the  office  door  and  beckoned 
across  the  counter  to  the  stranger  in  the  restaurant. 
When  this  mysterious  individual  had  come  around  into 
the  kitchen,  "I  want  to  introduce  my  friend  Judge 
Ryan,"  said  Steele.  "  I  brought  him.  Judge,  this  is  the 
bride." 

Celeste  shuddered.  The  thing  was  so  business-like. 
Now  she  knew  how  Steele  had  made  a  fortune.  "  But  I 
must  be  married  by  the  Church,"  she  objected,  ner- 
vously. "This  is  no  marriage." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  Irish  magistrate,  "but  it  is. 
This  goes  all  right.  It's  for  keeps,  I  promise  you." 

"  Later,"  said  Steele,  "  we'll  go  to  any  church  you  want 
to." 

Monsieur  and  madame  were  peering  in  from  the  little 
office.  Celeste  called  to  them.  "  I'm  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

Their  eyes  widened;  their  mouths  opened;  then  mon- 
sieur stepped  lightly  forward.  "Ma  p'tite,  ma  p'tite! 
how  delightful!"  He  twirled  his  mustache.  What  a 
happy  solution  to  the  problem.  "I  really  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  pleasure,"  he  began,  pompously,  but  al- 

406 


Toasting   the    Bride 

ready  madame  had  pushed  past  him  and  Celeste  was 
buried  in  the  capacious  bosom.  The  magistrate  beamed 
at  this  lovely  display  of  filial  and  maternal  devotion. 
Steele  glanced  covertly  at  the  empty  office  where  stood 
the  bottles  of  cordials,  high  on  the  shelf,  then  away,  as 
though  fearing  to  look  again.  Monsieur  crossed  over  to 
the  range  and  stood  ruefully  gazing  at  the  oven  door. 
"Is  it  not  too  bad  that  I  cannot  in  time  bake  a  cake?" 
He  pirouetted  about  like  a  dancing-master.  "Ah,  mais, 
9a  ne  fait  rien!  To-morrow  we  will  have  a  wonderful 
wedding  breakfast." 

At  thought  of  the  breakfast  madame  released  her  off- 
spring. "  Yes,  yes!  Oh,  I  am  so  much  excited!" 

Celeste  turned  to  Steele.  "  Where  shall  we  go  ?  It  is 
very  late."  Suddenly  an  indescribable  expression  stole 
into  her  eyes.  It  hinted  of  an  original  idea.  She  low- 
ered her  lids  to  hide  it.  Something  born  from  her  fan- 
tastic imagination  suddenly  suggested  itself.  Her  face, 
as  the  look  deepened,  seemed  to  denote  bitterness  pecul- 
iarly blent  with  satisfaction.  Like  a  flash  she  had  deter- 
mined to  endure  the  ordeal  by  transforming  in  fancy  the 
personality  of  Steele  into  that  of  another.  Was  ever  so 
severe  a  test  put  upon  the  imaginative  faculty?  And 
yet  there  might  be  a  way  of  aiding  her  mind  in  this  des- 
perate delusion.  So  much  depends  on  the  mise-en-scene 
in  comedy — or  tragedy. 

Steele  grew  impatient.  "We'll  get  married  first,  then 
why  can't  we  go  to  your  apartment?" 

"I've  given  it  up;  all  my  belongings  are  in  storage." 

"  Have  you?     Come  to  mine,  then." 

She  shook  her  head  and  turned  to  her  father.  "Tell 
me,  is  the  top-floor  front  occupied?" 

"No;  it  is  now  vacant." 

"Then  we  will  hire  it,"  she  said,  and  whispered  in 
Steele's  ear.  "Now  that  you  know  I'm  their  daughter, 
why  not  stay  under  their  roof?  Besides,  they'll  be  so 

407 


The   Triumph   of  Life 

disappointed  to-morrow  if  we're  not  h:re  for  the  wedding 
breakfast." 

Steele  nodded.     "Come,  judge,  do  your  worst." 

After  which  pleasantry  the  ceremony  was  performed. 
In  a  business-like  way  and  according  to  the  statutes  the 
knot  was  tied,  Celeste  smiling  light-heartedly,  Steele 
more  than  ever  ungainly  with  gratification,  the  magis- 
trate jovial  and  complimentary  with  the  prospect  of  a  fat 
fee,  and  the  mountain  and  the  mouse  bringing  up  the  rear, 
too  contented  to  wonder  at  this  happy  ending  of  all  their 
difficulties  with  the  child  of  their  hearts  and  pockets. 

When  Celeste  was  Mrs.  Matthew  Steele  she  turned  to 
her  lord  and  master  and  again  whispered  bashfully  in  his 
ear.  "I'm  going  up  for  a  few  minutes.  Don't  worry. 
I  won't  run  away.  It's  only  that  I  want  to  be  alone. 
It's  all  been  so  sudden."  She  bowed  to  the  committer 
of  the  deed.  "Good -night,  judge,  and  thank  you?" 
Whereat  she  left  them.  Even  now  Steele  followed  her 
to  the  door  to  make  sure  that  she  was  not  ^uding  him. 
When  he  turned  back  to  the  others  his  yellow  teeth 
showed  in  a  satisfied  smile.  His  bride  had  gone  up- 
stairs to  her  bedroom. 

Bonhomme  crawled  to  the  stairway  and  scurried  after 
her. 

The  servant  of  justice  smiled  at  Moreau.  "Is  the 
duck  cooked?" 

Moreau's  eyes  danced.  France  appreciated  Ireland's 
humor.  "Yes,  m'sieur,  the  duck  is  cooked,  though  not 
the  one  m'sieur  was  good  enough  to  order." 

With  a  laugh  at  Steele,  the  magistrate  departed. 

Matthew  crossed  the  kitchen  and  crossed  it  again,  in 
silence.  This  slow  march  he  repeated  several  times ;  and 
Moreau  noticed  that,  now  that  the  big  event  was  done 
with,  there  seemed  gradually  to  grow  a  vague  restless- 
ness and  lack  of  ease  in  the  man  who  had  forced  this 
issue.  The  strength  with  which  he  had  carried  the  thing 

408 


Toasting  the   Bride 

through  appeared  to  be  followed  by  a  telling  relaxation. 
Steele's  glance  evaded  the  two  who  wonderingly  regarded 
him.  His  eyes,  as  he  paced  back  and  forth,  suddenly 
became  haunted.  He  kept  looking  furtively  into  the 
little  office,  the  door  of  which  he  passed  repeatedly. 
There,  high  on  the  shelf,  the  bottles  were  arrayed  in 
line.  Catching  the  light  of  the  gas-jet,  they  became 
little  shining  streaks  of  red  and  green  and  yellow  that 
got  into  his  brain  and  stayed  there.  His  lips  were 
parted,  the  lower  visibly  white  and  dry  below  the  fringe 
of  his  mustache.  His  cheeks  grew  flaccid.  His  fingers 
were  fumbling  at  his  collar.  He  said  nothing.  Celeste 
was  long  in  coming. 

When  at  last  the  bride  returned,  the  bridegroom  was 
not  in  the  kitchen.  Thinking  he  was  perhaps  saying 
good-night  to  Judge  Ryan,  she  slipped  quickly  to  Moreau 
and  drew  from  her  pocket  a  letter  just  written.  "Post 
this  for  me,"  she  said,  "but,  in  Heaven's  name,  don't  let 
him  see  it."  As  Moreau  nodded  with  a  worHly  air  and, 
winking,  pocketed  the  letter,  "Where  is  he?"  asked 
Celeste,  smiling. 

Moreau  hesitated.  Madame,  however,  was  not  so  con- 
siderate. She  pointed  to  the  dimly  lit  office. 

In  sudden  alarm  Celeste  ran  to  the  open  doorway,  then 
paused,  horror-struck. 

Steele  smiled  down  at  her.  He  had  just  taken  from 
the  high  shelf  a  bottle  containing  an  opaque  and  greenish 
liquid,  slightly  opalescent  in  the  gas-light.  After  smil- 
ing at  her,  she  saw  him  look  about  for  a  glass.  On  find- 
ing none,  he  suddenly  laughed  outright  and  raised  the 
bottle  to  his  lips. 

Celeste  cried  aloud.  Quicker  even  than  he  was,  she 
sprang  towards  him  and  caught  at  the  bottle.  He  raised 
it  high  above  her  reach,  then  with  his  other  arm  grasped 
her  to  him  and  pushed  her  backwards  into  the  kitchen. 

409 


The  Triumph    of  Life 

"I'm  going  to  drink  to  the  bride,"  he  said,  "not  be- 
cause I  want  to,  but  because  I've  got  to."  He  smiled 
down  at  her.  "Now  I  know  why  the  doctor  looked 
queer." 

"Dieu  de  Dieu,"  cried  Moreau;  "absinthe  from  a 
bottle!" 

Madame  sank  to  a  chair.  "It  must  be  the  last 
stage." 

But  Ce'leste  was  catching  at  his  arm  with  the  ferocity 
of  a  tigress.  "God  in  heaven!  Don't,  don't!  Matthew, 
listen  to  me!  I  will  help  you!  Stop!  For  God's  sake, 
stop!  Fight  it!  Wait!  The  craving  will  pass !  Wait!" 

Steele  chuckled.  "'Drink,'  you  said;  'come,'  you 
said;  'the  taste  is  acquired.  Drink,'  you  said,  'to  our 
wedding  day!' " 

Bonhomme  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  cocked  an 
eye  at  them.  The  Moreaus  were  white  with  awe. 

Ce'leste  moaned  audibly,  convulsed  by  desperate  anxi- 
ety, and  the  two  stupefied  watchers  saw  her  summon  all 
the  strength  in  her  little  body  and  seize  his  upraised  arm. 
But  at  this,  with  his  free  hand,  huge,  prehensile,  and 
now  insanely  defensive,  he  caught  the  fingers  that  clawed 
his  arm  and  bent  them  back  as  if  to  break  them. 

She  groaned  in  pain. 

The  instant  was  propitious  for  the  hell  in  him.  He 
lowered  the  bottle  to  his  lips  and  drank  deep,  she  im- 
ploring him  the  while  and  cursing  him,  till  suddenly  she 
fell  to  her  knees  and  clasped  his  own,  and,  forgetting  in 
her  distress  the  watchers  behind  her,  prayed  to  him  and 
to  God  inarticulately.  For  once  the  little  silver  hunch- 
back at  her  side — her  favorite  talisman — tinkled  on  her 
chatelaine  forgotten.  At  last  she  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
Fate  too  big  to  be  cajoled  with  superstition.  She  was 
finding  it  impossible  to  flirt  with  Heaven. 

The  dog  in  terror  yapped  at  their  heels. 

Steele  laughed  at  the  puny  cries.  They  but  served 
410 


Toasting   the    Bride 

to  increase  the  disorder  of  his  brain.  "Our  wedding 
day!"  he  mumbled,  and  drank  deep.  Then,  with  the 
long,  never-forgettable  sigh  of  a  craving  temporarily 
relieved,  he  lowered  the  bottle,  stooped,  raised  Celeste 
and  bore  her  with  him  to  the  door.  She  appeared  to  be 
on  the  verge  of  fainting. 

Bonhomme  followed  close  to  Steele,  alert  and  men- 
acing as  if  awaiting  a  chance  to  assist  his  beloved  mis- 
tress. 

When  they  heard  the  man  heavily  ascending  the  stairs 
with  their  daughter,  the  witnesses  of  this  appalling  scene 
came  at  last  to  their  senses.  "Quick,"  said  madame, 
"we  must  do  something!" 

' '  What  can  we  do  ? "  whimpered  the  father.  ' '  They  are 
husband  and  wife." 

"Dear  Lord,"  moaned  the  mother,  "hear  him  drag- 
ging her  up-stairs!" 

"Yes;  it  is  terrible,  but  I  fear  she  has  brought  it  on 
herself.  Hush!  what  was  that?"  They  heard  an  oath, 
a  little  cry,  then  a  bumping  on  the  stairs  and  a  light 
thud  at  the  bottom.  "  Bonhomme!  oh,  it's  the  poor  Bon- 
homme!" said  monsieur,  with  a  shudder. 

When  the  sound  of  the  heavy  footfalls  had  ceased, 
madame  wailed  aloud  and  wrung  her  fat  hands  in  sor- 
row. "Let  us  go  to  the  room  and  stay  there  with  her. 
Quick,  the  top-floor  front!" 

Monsieur  sprang  up  and  led  the  way.  In  the  hall  he 
nearly  stumbled  over  the  prostrate  dog,  who  had  evi- 
dently been  kicked  down-stairs  by  the  bridegroom. 
Whether  he  was  dead  or  alive  they  could  not  determine 
for  the  gloom,  nor  did  they  stop  to  investigate. 

When  they  reached  the  top  story  monsieur  tried  the 
door.  "Dear  me,"  he  snivelled,  "it  is  locked." 

"Is  the  key  in  the  lock?" 

Moreau  peeped  in  at  the  key-hole.  "No,"  was  the 
despairing  whisper;  "he  has  taken  it  out." 

411 


The    Triumph   of   Life 

"Go  down,"  panted  madame,  "and  get  the  pass- 
key." 

Monsieur  started  to  descend,  then  turned  and  wept 
like  a  child.  "Our  little  one  took  the  pass-key  that 
night,  and  never  gave  it  back!" 


Life    in   Epitome 

WELL,  Ezra,  did  you  think  I  was  dead?" 
Slocum  jumped.     "  H'loa,  Enoch!  you  back?" 

The  light-ship's  master  was  eying  dolefully  the  desert- 
ed cabin  when  suddenly  its  missing  occupant  entered  the 
opening  behind  him. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  long  June  day, 
earth's  dearest  guest,  was  lingering  still  on  the  threshold 
of  the  west,  beneficently  delaying  its  departure.  The 
blue  of  the  wide,  untrammelled  heavens  seemed  unusu- 
ally near.  The  atmosphere  was  living.  Here  and  there 
over  the  meadows  it  was  visible  to  the  eye.  And  the 
lowing  of  cattle,  the  even-song  of  birds,  the  drone  of  in- 
sects seemed  to  be  the  expression  of  its  life.  Like  the 
palpable,  colorless,  moving  atmosphere,  the  sounds  were 
the  subtlest  of  appeals  to  the  senses.  They  inhabited  the 
ether.  Even  the  clung  of  a  loafing  bull-frog  down  in  the 
marsh  was  good  to  hear.  But  the  stir  of  the  breeze  was 
music.  The  stir  of  the  breeze  is  the  only  whisper  that 
exerts  the  influence  of  a  tone.  Pleasanter,  though,  than 
all  the  voices  of  nature  was  the  voice  of  a  friend.  Enoch 
felt  something  akin  to  his  old,  boyish  devotion  and  loy- 
alty when  the  master  of  the  light-ship  greeted  him  with 
that  never-failing  "H'loa!" 

Slocum  stood  leaning  on  an  oar  with  one  hand ;  in  the 
other  he  carried  a  basket.  "I  brought  you  a  mess  of 
fish,  but  when  I  seed  the  place  closed  ag'in  I  thought, 
wal,  he's  cleared  out  for  another  year  or  so,  I  swan!" 

413 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

Enoch  laughed  and  unlocked  the  door.  ' '  Not  I !  Only 
a  couple  of  days,  that's  all."  He  glanced  across  the 
water.  "  I  see  the  Jamboree  is  in.  When  did  she  come?" 

"Lars  night,  and  I  thought  mebbe  you  was  aboard, 
but  they  rowed  ashore  this  mornin'  lookin'  for  you — 
Mr.  O'Brien's  men." 

Enoch  nodded.  Perhaps  this  accounted  for  one  of 
three  letters — still  unread  in  his  pocket — which  he  had 
found  awaiting  him  at  the  Bristol  post-office. 

Slocum  set  down  the  fish  within  the  doorway.  "I 
'ain't  time  to  help  you  cook  'em.  'Night." 

"Wait,"  said  Enoch,  "I'll  sail  you  over.  No;  there's 
not  enough  wind.  Never  mind,  we'll  row.  I've  got  to 
go  out  to  the  Jamboree.  We  can  tow  your  skiff." 

While  they  rowed  out  slowly  in  Lloyd's  boat,  each  at 
an  oar,  Slocum,  winking  to  himself  behind  his  idol,  sly- 
ly remarked,  "I  guess  you've  come  back  more  ways  'n 
one." 

"You're  right,"  replied  Enoch,  pulling  harder.  "I 
have." 

"And  mebbe,"  pursued  the  voice  in  the  bow,  "you 
kin  tend  light  better  herearter." 

"Yes;  perhaps  I  can." 

Slocum  bit  his  quid.  "Now,  I'm  not  askin'  no  ques- 
tions, but  it  did  seem  queer." 

To  this  there  was  no  answer,  and  the  old  molluscan 
took  the  hint.  "What  a  pace  you're  a-settin'!  But, 
speakin'  of  the  light,  it  won't  be  on  the  ship  much  longer. 
No  currents,  eh?  No  winds,  no  fogs,  no  shiftin' !"  This 
with  a  crusty  smile  of  sagacity. 

"Good,"  said  Enoch,  in  a  low  voice. 

"The  light,"  panted  Slocum,  now  forced  by  his  fel- 
low-rower to  pull  for  dear  life,  "will  be  on  a  rock." 

They  were  before  long  at  the  ship's  side.  Its  master, 
making  fast  his  skiff,  scrambled  up,  agile  as  a  monkey. 
"Come  soon  'n'  tend  it,"  he  called  down. 

414 


Life   in   Epitome 

Enoch  nodded.  "I'll  come,"  he  promised,  "when  the 
light  is  on  a  rock,"  and  rowed  away  slowly. 

As  he  left  it,  the  light-ship  had  an  effect,  in  the  soft 
haze,  of  receding,  due  to  his  own  motion.  Almost  im- 
perceptibly it  seemed  to  drift  from  him  as  though  set- 
ting out  at  last  for  an  actual  voyage  to  the  open  ocean. 
There  stood  Slocum  in  the  stern,  his  figure  growing  con- 
stantly smaller.  Once  he  raised  his  arm  and  waved  it 
with  a  jerky  uplift  from  elbow  to  hand,  a  sort  of  short 
good-bye  in  his  lonely  language  of  gesture.  Then  he 
withdrew  below. 

Enoch  smiled  to  himself  and  rested  on  his  oars.  From 
his  pocket  he  took  out  the  letters.  First  he  read 
O'Brien's.  The  writing  sprawled  across  the  paper. 

"DEAR  ANGEL,  —  I'm  off  again  for  nowhere.  As  the 
yacht  is  at  present  supporting  the  Lord  knows  how  many 
able-bodied  loafers,  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  polish 
brass  and  change  their  togs  and  joke  at  the  absence  flag,  I 
am  thinking  that  give-away  up  there  will  have  to  come 
down,  and  the  owner,  his  royal  nibs,  stay  aboard  for  a  while 
just  to  prove  he's  a  yachtsman.  Hang  it  all,  what's  the 
use  of  the  dough,  anyway,  if  you  don't  bake  it?  Come 
along,  and  again  we'll  do  the  foreign  act  together.  I  want 
to  hear  you  sing '  Yo,  ho,'  and  see  you  do  a  hornpipe  on  deck 
when  she's  half  seas  over.  What's  the  use  of  your  being  a 
clam?  Come  out  of  it.  We'll  go  wherever  you  say  and 
poke  her  nose  into  any  old  port  and  fool  around  all  summer. 

"I'm  sending  her  to  Bristol  for  you.  Pack  your  tooth- 
brush and  come  along.  She's  to  pick  me  up  in  Boston. 
I've  asked  Cutty,  but  he's  grouchy  about  something,  and 
says  I  ought  to  go  to  work,  which  is  true  enough,  but  I 
can't  do  it.  Nobody  wants  me.  If  I  blow  a  man  to  a 
drink,  he  promises  to  think  about  it,  and  that's  the  end  of 
him.  If  I  don't,  he  doesn't  even  do  that  much.  The  old 
man  says  I'm  the  toughest  job  he  ever  contracted  for,  and 
that's  pretty  strong.  He's  building  sky-scrapers  by  the 
dozen. 

415 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

"Well,  here's  a  chance  for  you  to  get  out  of  all  that  wool- 
gathering you  seem  to  be  doped  by  lately,  so  come  along. 
"Yours,  for  the  ocean-wave  and  plenty  of  provisions, 

"GOL." 

Enoch  smiled  a  trifle  darkly.  Escape!  Was  this  the 
last  hope  of  the  devil's  advocate?  Escape  from  the  re- 
sults of  that  terrible  confession?  How  curious  that  Go- 
liath should  have,  all  unknowingly,  made  possible  a  flight 
from  consequences. 

Enoch  thrust  the  invitation  into  his  pocket  and  hastily 
tore  open  the  second  letter,  of  which  the  chirography 
was  almost  microscopic  but  perfectly  legible,  being  Cuth- 
bert  Morton's: 

"DEAR  ENOCH, — O'Brien  says  he's  going  to  drag  you  off 
to  Europe.  Perhaps  it  is  none  of  my  business,  but  I  can- 
not help  writing  to  say  don't  go.  Cobbler,  stick  to  your 
last.  I  now  believe  you  can  do  something.  At  first  you 
were  up  in  heaven,  then  you  were  down  in  hell,  and  now 
you're  on  terra  firma.  Don't  go  meandering  under  the  sky 
again.  It's  dangerous.  It  means  idling  above  the  depths 
that  can  drown  you.  I  repeat,  it's  none  of  my  business, 
but  I'm  going  to  say  this  much:  you  need  a  grind.  Keep 
your  nose  to  the  grindstone  and  you  will  do  something. 
The  best  thing  you  ever  did  in  your  life  was  that  confession. 
I  never  saw  such  an  exhibition  of  backbone.  After  you  left 
there  was  a  dead  silence  till  at  last  somebody  turned  to 
Charlie  Parker,  the  dramatist,  and  said, '  That  was  a  scene 
that  puts  to  shame  the  highest  efforts  of  your  art.'  '  Yes,' 
said  Parker,  'it  was  the  climax  of  a  living  tragedy.'  The 
old  Greek  prof  took  a  look  down  the  lines  of  faces  and 
nodded  to  himself.  '  Now  we  know  better  than  ever,'  he 
observed,  '  what  Aristotle  meant  when  he  described  the 
after-effect  on  the  audience  of  true  tragedy.  No  doubt  you 
remember  the  word.  In  English  it  means  purification.' 

"  Yes,  Enoch,  you  did  a  big  thing.  I  said  to  Pritchard, 
'  If  you  were  to  put  Lloyd  in  marble  as  he  stood  there,  what 
would  you  call  the  figure?'  His  answer  was  unexpected. 
'I  would  call  it — Success.' 

416 


Life   in  Epitome 

"I  have  had  a  glimmer  of  the  truth  for  several  months 
— ever  since  that  night  in  your  room  when  you  got  so  un- 
warrantably angry  with  me.  That  was  the  rage  of  guilt. 
In  the  first  place,  I  knew  you,  and  in  the  second,  I  happened 
to  take  up  one  day  a  novel  called  The  Flame  of  Folly, 
which  Steele  was  impertinent  enough  to  send  me  for  a 
criticism.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  style,  and  later  I 
bought  The  Altar  of  Love.  There  were  several  peculiar 
parallels,  or,  rather,  glaring  contrasts,  between  this  and 
The  Greatest  Good.  Having  already  suspected  you,  I  looked 
for  more  and  found  them.  Two  of  the  most  striking  con- 
tradictions revealed  the  extraordinary  mingling  of  a  double 
identity  in  your  authorship. 

"In  The  Flame  of  Folly  you  say:  'The  voice  of  humor  is 
cracked  with  age.  Laughter  is  in  its  dotage.' 

"  In  The  Greatest  Good  you  had  said:  'Humor  is  the  brother 
of  the  Three  Graces.  His  laughter,  like  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  is  eternally  childlike.'' 

"  In  The  Altar  of  Love,  Dolly  Cohen's  second  book,  which 
was  far  more  dangerous  than  the  first — you  must  have 
been  in  a  pleasant  mood  when  you  wrote  it — I  hit  upon 
the  following:  'Death,  it  seems,  is  the  end  of  everything,  the  be- 
ginning of  nothing.  In  fearing  its  darkness  perhaps  we  are 
afraid  of  our  own  shadows.' 

"But  in  The  Greatest  Good  you  had  already  observed: 
'The  darkness  of  death  is  a  gracious  mystery;  perhaps  it  is 
even  the  shadow  of  God.' 

"And  so  on. 

"You  see,  being  a  critic  and  Cuthbert  Morton,  I  noticed 
these  peculiar  distortions.  Probably  now,  more  than  ever, 
you  will  call  me  a  sort  of  psychical  detective.  Well,  I  have 
no  apologies.  Detectives,  at  least,  serve  the  interests  of 
justice.  It  was  I  who  determined  you  should  join  the 
Millennium  Club.  If  you  consented  to  that  I  would  feel  sure 
I  was  mistaken.  I  knew  you  could  not  do  it.  Your  elec- 
tion would  bring  the  thing  to  a  head.  I  believe  in  the  knife. 
So  perhaps  you  will  say  again,  'Yes,  he  means  well,  anyway.' 

"By-the-by,  we  decided  to  say  nothing  of  the  affair.  It 
goes  no  further  than  the  Millennium  Club. 

"Faithfully  always,  CUTHBERT  MORTON." 

27  417 


The   Triumph   of   Life 

Enoch  smiled  sadly.  Why  should  Cuthbert  have  re- 
called those  convicting  passages?  And  the  silence  of  the 
Millennium's  members  meant  little  to  him.  There  was 
another  channel  of  exposure.  Pocketing  the  letter,  he 
tossed  to  the  seat  before  him  the  third  communication, 
contained  in  a  small  mauve-tinted  envelope,  and  fell  to 
rowing. 

Yes,  Cutty  had  always  meant  well,  after  all. 

Coming  abreast  of  the  Jamboree,  Enoch  mounted  has- 
tily to  the  deck. 

The  captain,  with  a  smile  of  welcome,  touched  his 
visor.  "Then  you're  coming,  sir?" 

"No;  I  want  to  write  to  Mr.  O'Brien." 

"Yes,  sir;  in  the  cabin."  The  captain's  face  fell.  Mr. 
Lloyd  had  been  the  life  of  the  last  voyage. 

Enoch  scribbled  a  note  on  the  elaborately  emblazoned 
writing-paper : 

"DEAR  GOL, — A  thousand  thanks,  but  I  can't  go  with 
you.  I  have  too  much  work  to  do.  The  cobbler  must 
stick  to  his  last.  Good  luck,  and  the  best  of  voyages. 

'Yours  for  the  grindstone, 

"ENOCH." 

When  he  rowed  away  it  was  evening,  almost  too  dark 
for  reading.  Realizing  this,  he  again  rested  on  his  oars, 
drifting  homeward,  and  looked  at  the  mauve-colored  en- 
velope. With  a  frown  he  opened  it,  and  managed  to 
decipher  in  the  deepening  gloom  this  vivacious  farewell : 

"DEAR  ENOCH  LLOYD, — Why  should  I?  That's  what  I 
say  to  myself,  and  it's  quite  a  sensible  question.  But  the 
answer  is  still  more  indicative  of  wisdom.  I  won't.  Per- 
haps I  never  intended  to.  All  the  same,  it  was  a  telling  pis- 
tol to  hold  at  your  head,  even  if  it  wasn't  loaded.  And  it 
really  wasn't.  Never  would  I  have  exposed  you — you're 
such  a  boy.  Of  course,  you  remember  when  I  showed  you 
the  proof-sheets  of  that  article.  Well,  they  were  all  blank 

418 


Life   in    Epitome 

— blank  cartridges! — except  the  one  you  saw.  What  do 
you  think  of  that?  Don't  you  feel  a  trifle  sheepish? 

"Now,  here's  a  piece  of  news  for  you.  I  have  married 
Steele  this  evening.  The  Queen  of  Bohemia  has  become 
the  consort  of  Baal.  Funny,  isn't  it?  And  where  do  you 
suppose  I  am  writing  this  last  good-bye?  Ten  to  one  you 
can't  guess.  I  am  in  your  room,  top  floor  front,  the  Wash- 
ington Hotel.  Somehow,  I  could  not  say  'no'  to  the  whim 
that  brought  me  here,  and  I  shall  try  to  think  of  you  even 
after  he  comes  up  to  me.  At  the  present  moment  the 
bridegroom  is  cooling  his  heels  down-stairs.  I  like  to  keep 
him  waiting.  In  spite  of  the  stains  on  the  walls  and  these 
horrible  daubs  from  the  Latin  Quarter,  it's  nice  to  be 
here.  Clickety-tap,  click-tap,  I  can  hear  your  typewriter  as 
though  it  were  tapping  still.  I  had  a  machine  myself  once, 
but  I  never  used  it.  I  hired  the  thing  to  fool  Steele.  It 
made  him  think  that  I  was  you.  Well,  I  was  for  a  time, 
wasn't  I? 

"I  am  smoking  a  cigarette.  Do  you  remember  when  I 
sat  here  with  you  and  smoked  one?  Bah!  a  cigarette  is 
better  than  a  borrowed  plume  any  day,  and  everything 
ends  in  smoke.  Behold  my  plumes  ascending  in  spirals  to 
the  ceiling. 

"The  court  of  the  queen  is  deserted.  Gone  are  the 
courtiers  back  to  their  holes.  I  wanted  Sennacherib  to 
marry  Felice,  and  the  Snark  to  marry  Mr.  Blankski;  but  it's 
hard  to  manage  a  tableau  for  the  climax  of  real  life.  They 
didn't  see  it.  So  I  have  sent  Felice  to  the  convent  where 
her  mistress  used  to  be.  She  is  such  a  good  little  creature. 
Possibly  she  will  come  out  of  it  better  than  I  did.  Speak- 
ing of  the  convent  reminds  me  of  something.  Oh,  dear  me, 
have  I  got  to  tell  you?  It's  queer  how  you  affect  me.  This 
is  a  thing  that  I  could  never  confess  to  a  priest,  so  I'm  going 
to  confess  it  to  you.  Perhaps  it  will  show  you  how  oddly 
the  good  in  me  went  wrong.  Do  you  remember  the  silver 
crucifix  that  hung  over  the  prie-dieu?  Well,  I  stole  it  from 
the  convent.  I  stole  it  to  worship  it!  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  a  woman? 

"Why  am  I  scribbling  on  and  on  so  glibly?  I  think  it  is 
because  Matthew  Steele  is  down  there  waiting  for  me, 

419 


The   Triumph    of   Life 

and  because  it  is  strangely  satisfying  to  be  here  in  your 
room  alone  with  you  in  the  last  few  moments  before  he 
comes. 

"Well,  good-bye,  my  Lord  Two-names.  That  anagram 
is,  indeed,  an  amazing  freak  of  fate.  I'll  never  forget  my 
delight  when  I  discovered  it — when  I  discovered  that  the 
name  Dolly  Cohen  was  so  weirdly  contained  in  Enoch  Lloyd. 
How  did  you  feel  when  I  whispered  it  in  your  ear?  Dieu, 
the  sight  of  you  then  made  me  a  baby!  Good-bye,  mi- 
lord ;  you  see  I  don't  say  my  Lord  High  Executioner.  And 
why?  Do  you  want  to  know?  The  reason  is  this:  the 
novels  of  Dolly  Cohen  are  still  selling.  Steele  says  so. 
They  are  not  dead.  You  can't  kill  them.  If  you  confessed 
the  whole  thing  to  the  world,  you  would  merely  boom  the 
books.  Of  course  Steele  knows  I'm  a  sham,  and  suspects 
the  real  author.  But  I  have  sworn  him  to  secrecy,  partly 
for  your  sake,  but,  as  usual,  mostly  for  my  own.  If  I  can't 
write  books,  I  can  at  least  talk  whole  volumes,  and  live  on 
the  laurels  of  the  past. 

"Concerning  that  luminous  beauty  who  took  you  away 
from  me,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  She  is  more  in  keeping 
with  the  blue  of  your  eyes  than  I  am,  and  I  always  believe 
in  harmony. 

"  So  it  goes  and  so  go  I.  Good-bye  to  you,  Enoch  Lloyd. 
What  nonsense  I  have  been  writing!  But  this  is  the  end 
of  it  all,  and  I'm  a  positive  coward  at  leaving  you.  It 
seems  impossible  to  write  the  last  adieu.  Oh,  how  I  fear 
finality! 

"  Somehow,  I'm  fond  of  stupid  Bonhomme  to-night.  He 
is  lying  at  my  feet.  Somehow,  he  keeps  me  from  being 
lonely.  What  wouldn't  I  give  for  a  box  of  candy?  I'd  sell 
my  soul  for  a  morsel  of  nougat. 

"So  it  goes  and  so  go  I,  or  at  least  I  don't,  for  I'm  con- 
soling myself  that  you  won't  forget  me.  Even  when  you 
stand  with  your  arm  about  her  you  will  perhaps  remember 
your  other  self.  Look  at  me!  look  at  me!  Oh,  how  I  hate 
to  make  you  remember  me  this  way — to  make  you  remember 
me  simply  because  I  typify  your  evil.  But  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  you  forget  me — no,  I  cannot  bear  it.  Good-bye,  I 
am  now  going  down  to  my  husband.  Adieu,  dear  Enoch 

420 


Life   in    Epitome 

Lloyd  —  the  last   adieu.     There !     That    proves  my  cour- 
age. 

"I  was  about  to  sign  myself  Celeste,  then  Celeste  Steele, 
but  I  prefer  to  put  it, 

"Yours  till  death, 

"  DOLLY  COHEN." 

Enoch  shuddered.  He  almost  wished  she  had  ex- 
posed him.  It  distressed  his  mind  to  think  she  had  de- 
nied him  something  —  a  benefit  namable  only  as  the 
privilege  of  punishment.  And  still  an  evil  contribution 
to  literature,  written  under  the  name  that  was  buried  in 
his  name,  would  continue  to  exert  an  influence  for  ill. 
Nothing  could  stop  it  utterly.  Nothing  could  cancel 
those  few  short  months.  Gladly  he  would  have  made 
any  sacrifice,  but  none  would  avail.  Something  had 
been  done  that  could  never  be  undone  by  any  human 
deed.  Never  would  the  wrong  be  wholly  righted.  The 
wound,  though  healed  by  his  recent  heroic  treatment, 
would  leave  a  scar. 

Enoch,  with  dull  anger,  tore  up  the  letter  and  threw  the 
scraps  overboard.  Then  he  looked  about  him.  Slo- 
cum's  light  was  now  far  away.  He  could  see  in  its 
gleam  the  Jamboree,  just  starting.  A  line  of  smoke  trail- 
ed behind  her.  Her  rakish  hull  was  a  moving  streak  of 
white,  edged  with  lights.  She  was  cutting  up  froth  with 
her  propeller.  It  bubbled  luminous  in  her  wake.  Long 
he  watched  the  receding  pleasure-craft  till  at  last,  steam- 
ing faster  and  faster,  she  disappeared.  The  reckless, 
rakish,  brilliant,  foam -cutting  spirit  of  his  youth  had 
vanished. 

He  glanced  at  the  near  shore.  The  tide  had  brought 
him  opposite  to  the  long,  white  house  of  the  Doric  Col- 
umns. Instinctively  he  rounded  in  on  his  homeward 
way.  To  his  surprise,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man,  thin 
and  tall,  standing  on  the  old  stone  dock  peering  forward 
to  look  at  him. 

421 


The  Triumph   of   Life 

•'  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Lloyd?"     The  voice  was  Timothy's. 

Enoch  hesitated,  then,  "Yes,"  he  faintly  answered. 

The  Old  Standby  appeared  excited.  "Wait  a  minute, 
sir — one  minute."  Whereupon  he  turned,  and,  forgetting 
his  pet  ailment,  made  speedy  progress  back  to  the  house. 
Enoch  watched  the  lank  shadow  hobble  hurriedly  up  the 
slope.  In  a  moment  it  was  replaced  by  two  other  shad- 
ows that  came  downward.  Enoch  moored  his  skiff  at 
the  dock  next  to  the  white  yawl  Ariel — moored  it  close  to 
the  dock  of  memory,  side  by  side  with  the  boat  of  dreams. 
Landing,  he  went  hesitantly  forward  to  meet  the  figures. 

Mr.  Lee  came  first,  his  companion,  easily  recognizable 
in  the  starlight,  lingering  behind  in  the  lane — waiting. 

"  Lloyd,  I  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  you.  Timothy, 
all  of  his  own  accord,  has  been  keeping  watch.  Well, 
there's  little  to  say.  But  I  want  to  welcome  you  back  to 
Bristol — back  to  Bristol, and, better  yet,  to — what  shall  I 
call  it?"  He  laid  a  hand  on  the  broad  shoulder.  "  Back 
to  the  truth.  Do  you  remember  what  I  once  said  to 
you  about  life  as  we  went  up  to  the  house  together?  I 
said  that  life  would  tell.  You  see  you  came  near  to  dy- 
ing spiritually,  but  the  vitality  was  in  you  to  withstand 
that  terrible,  lurking  atrophy  which  in  the  psychical 
world  is  analogous  to  the  approach  of  death  in  nature. 
We  are  Americans,  Lloyd,  and  so  have  as  yet  little  to  fear 
from  decadence.  But  an  ounce  of  prevention  is  worth 
a  pound  of  cure.  See  to  it  that  you  aid  in  dispensing 
this  ounce  hereafter.  Aid  in  keeping  the  souls  of  men 
alive,  in  so  far  as  you  can,  by  your  writing.  You  have 
just  proved  yourself  qualified  to  assist  in  doing  so." 
The  old  man's  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile  in  the  star- 
light. "  I  was  never  so  sure  of  you  as  I  am  now.  That 
was  a  splendid  thing  you  did  in  speaking  out  so  bravely. 
I  call  it  'The  Triumph  of  Life.'  That's  what  I  call 
your  confession." 

His  tone  became  lighter.  "No,  no;  don't  say  any- 

422 


Life   in   Epitome 

thing.  You  see,  I  haven't  given  you  a  chance.  It's  hard 
to  talk  sometimes.  Yes,  yes;  I  know  how  hard — except, 
perhaps,  to  talk  to — "  He  lowered  his  voice.  "Well, 
when  you  write  another  Greatest  Good  I  give  my  consent. 
Then  you  will  be  really  worthy  of  my  Marion."  He 
stepped  back,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  behind  him,  in- 
spected his  protege*  beamingly. 

"How  can  I  hope,"  began  Lloyd,  fervently,  "ever  to 
thank  you  for  all — " 

The  little  old  gentleman  shook  his  head.  "No;  not  a 
word,  remember.  It's  hard  to  talk  sometimes,  except 
to — "  He  turned  away.  "Besides,  I  have  neglected 
the  greenhouse  to-day,  I've  been  so  impatient  to  see 
you."  He  glanced  back.  "Words,  my  dear  Lloyd,  are 
superfluous." 

Marion,  too,  seemed  to  think  so.  Little  passed  be- 
tween them  that  evening  in  mere  words.  Silence  was 
the  deeper  speech.  Though  so  lately  they  had  stood  the 
test  and  proved  themselves  man  and  woman,  they  were 
once  again  for  a  spell  mere  children. 

A  moment  they  watched  the  familiar  figure  of  Mr.  Lee 
receding  into  the  vast  shade  of  the  orchard,  a  moment 
they  gave  of  their  hearts  even  now  to  his  passing. 

Then  they  turned  to  each  other.  "Enoch,  Enoch — 
mine!" 

She  stood  meltingly  close  to  him,  there  in  the  lane 
alone  with  him,  his  as  he  was  hers.  Meltingly  she  stood 
there  close  to  him,  and  yet  with  what  pride  in  her  eyes! 
All  her  pride  had  returned  to  her,  but  now  it  was  pride  in 
him. 

Nevertheless  he  held  back.  "If  I  can  write  another 
Greatest  Good — " 

She  smiled  with  radiant  certainty.  "You  can.  It  is 
written  already  in  your  heart." 

"Oh,  Marion!" 

423 


The   Triumph   of  Life 

"Enoch!" 

It  seemed  well  that  the  moon  had  not  yet  risen.  The 
constancy  of  the  stars  far  better  defined  that  moment. 
And  the  night  was  still.  Nothing  did  they  hear  save 
their  own  breathing,  nothing  did  they  see  save  each  the 
depths  of  the  other's  eyes;  nothing  did  they  know  save 
the  wild,  sweet  wonder  of  their  souls  interblending  in 
a  kiss. 

Then,  at  last,  after  a  moment — or  an  hour — they  turned 
with  a  natural,  mutual  instinct  to  the  water.  Along  the 
shore  they  wandered,  his  arm  about  her,  his  hand  on  her 
throbbing  heart. 

"Marion—" 

"Oh,  Enoch—" 

"Can  it  be?" 

"It«." 

"And  we  are  to  do  great  things — together." 

"  Yes;  our  love  shall  help  the  world." 

The  moon  was  now  rising  slowly  over  the  eastern  shore. 
Enoch  turned  to  look  at  Marion,  athirst  for  the  beauty 
of  his  love — the  beauty  of  her  hair,  its  celestial  radiance, 
the  beauty  of  her  eyes,  their  truth. 

She  hid  her  face  with  her  hands,  and,  when  he  tried  to 
unscreen  it,  hid  it  the  more  on  his  shoulder. 

"Don't;  you  are  beautiful,"  he  said;  then,  with  a  quick 
return  of  his  youthful  fire  and  wilfulness,  "  Haven't  I  the 
right — "  He  paused,  suddenly.  "No,  Marion;  no,  I 
haven't." 

She  raised  her  head.  "Yes,  yes;  you  have.  Look!" 
She  stood  back  for  an  instant,  timid  in  so  difficult  a  sur- 
render. 

But  Enoch,  humbly  withholding  his  gaze,  only  clasped 
his  arm  about  her  again,  and  they  strolled  yet  farther  on 
the  shore. 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,  Marion,  that  you  and  I — " 

"No;  but  we  are." 

424 


Life   in   Epitome 

They  had  come  to  the  half-way  rock  which  rose  high  at 
the  water's  edge. 

Before  turning  back  they  paused  there  a  moment,  his 
arm  close  about  her,  and  looked  off  across  the  bay. 

Beside  the  rock  the  ripples,  silvered  by  the  moon,  were 
idly  playing.  Enoch  glanced  down  at  them.  His  eyes 
caught  sight  of  several  light,  flakish  things  floating  in  the 
froth.  The  tide  was  gently  washing  them  ashore.  Some 
were  already  strewn  upon  the  sand. 

They  were  scraps  of  paper — scraps  of  the  mauve-tinted 
letter  he  had  torn  up  and  thrown  overboard. 

Suddenly  his  heart  constricted  and  seemed  to  be 
weighted  down.  A  few  words  of  the  letter  had  recurred 
to  him.  "You  won't  forget  me.  Even  when  you  stand 
with  your  arm  about  her  you  will  perhaps  remember  your 
other  self." 

He  raised  his  eyes.  That  other  seemed  to  be  there 
before  him,  standing  beside  the  rock,  as  she  had  stood 
that  ultimate  night — a  small,  dark  figure,  her  shadow, 
vague  in  the  moonlight,  reaching  towards  him,  .  .  .  the 
shadow  of  his  eternal  past. 


BY  MRS.  HUMPHRY   WARD 


LADY  ROSE'S  DAUGHTER.  Illustrat- 
ed by  HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY.  Post 
8vo,  Ornamented  Cloth,  $i  50. 

This  is  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  latest  novel.  It  has 
been  hailed  as  undoubtedly  her  best,  while  Julie  Le 
Breton,  the  heroine,  has  been  called  "  the  most  appeal- 
ing type  of  heroine  in  English  fiction." 

"  A  story  that  must  be  read." — New  York  Sun. 

"Vividly  alive  from  the  first  line." — Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

"  The  most  marvellous  work  of  its  wonderful  author." 
—New  York  World. 

"Absolutely  different  from  anything  else  that  has 
ever  appeared  in  fiction." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  Love  is  not  here  the  sentimental  emotion  of  the  or- 
dinary novel  or  play,  but  the  power  that  purges  the 
weaknesses  and  vivifies  the  dormant  nobilities  of  men 
and  women." — The  Academy,  London,  England. 

"  Quite  sure  to  be  the  most  widely  and  most  highly 
considered  book  of  the  year." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  The  story  is  the  combat  between  two  powers  of  a 
brilliant  woman's  nature.  Sometimes  you  are  sure  the 
lawless,  the  vagabond,  and  the  intriguing  side  will  win. 
But  it  doesn't.  .  .  ." — Boston  Transcript. 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

The  above  work  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the 
price. 


BY  MARGARET  HORTON  POTTER 


ISTAR  OF  BABYLON.     Post  8vo,  Ornamented 
Cloth,  $i  50. 

The  chief  character  in  this  new  novel  is  Istar,  the 
Egyptian  Venus.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Babylon, 
and  it  deals  with  the  events  up  to  and  including  the 
great  feast  of  Belshazzar.  The  underlying  theme 
of  the  story  treats  of  the  joys,  griefs,  and  sins  of 
womankind  as  shown  in  the  life  of  the  goddess 
Istar,  who  is  changed  through  love  to  a  woman. 
It  is  a  novel  of  remarkable  power,  depicting  most 
vividly  and  in  a  most  interesting  story  the  life  in 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  epochs  in  history. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


above  work  mill  be  sent  by  mail,  postage 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada, 
or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN 


THE    VULTURES.     Illustrated.    Post   8vo,   Or- 
namented Cloth,  $i  50. 

A  new  novel  by  Henry  Seton  Merriman  is  always 
eagerly  welcomed  by  every  reader  of  fiction.  This 
is  a  story  of  intrigue,  conspiracy,  and  exciting  ad- 
venture among  the  political  factions  of  the  great 
European  nations.  One  of  the  scenes  is  in  Russia 
at  the  time  of  the  assassination  of  the  Czar.  The 
attaches  of  the  various  Foreign  Offices  play  an 
important  part.  It  is  full  of  exciting,  dramatic 
situations,  most  of  which  centre  around  the  love 
interest  of  the  story — the  love  of  a  young  English 
diplomatist  for  the  beautiful  Countess  Wanda  of 
Warsaw. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


above  work  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada, 
or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000127534     6 


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